Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  She stood behind Ivy, the knife poking into her neck once again before she shoved her down the gaping black hole. Ivy landed with a crack and then a thud on the cold cement ground, the whirring of the boiler the last thing she heard before everything went black.

  As Griffin and Joey approached the Longmere Nursing Home on First Avenue, Griffin experienced the same tightness in his chest, in his throat, that always accompanied him on visits. If this place had that effect on him, he wondered what it must be like for a kid like Joey. Adult at eighteen or not, Joey was a kid.

  Evidently.

  A game of basketball at Griffin’s gym, more food, a walk, and a round of ice hockey at an arcade they’d passed along the way had accomplished most of what Griffin had hoped for the day. Joey had come to realize—with a degree of self-pride—that his father meant more to him than anyone or anything. Including a woman. And since the particular woman didn’t seem to put Joey’s needs ahead of her own, Joey didn’t have much trouble seeing that it was okay to put his ahead of hers. They’d both chosen themselves. And at eighteen and nineteen, they’d both made the right choice.

  Whew. Only took two and a half hours to get there.

  But the question of where Joey’s father belonged, that hadn’t been dealt with so easily. Joey still wasn’t sure that his father was better cared for in the nursing home than he would be with Joey on the job.

  Joey didn’t quite get what the job was. Apparently, when visiting his dad every day for the past couple of months, he was more focused on the heartbreak of the situation, of the loss of who his father had been, than on the care his father required. Griffin figured Joey needed to see just how patients at Longmere were treated by the staff. And how it wasn’t a matter of finding an apartment for the two of them and maybe a nurse’s aid—which Joey wouldn’t be able to afford anyway.

  As they headed inside the building, Griffin glanced at his watch. Ivy was due to check in with him in around ten minutes, maybe twenty at the most if there was traffic getting back into the city. That would give Griffin enough time to check in at the desk and give Joey a little time alone with his dad while Griffin spoke to Ivy.

  She’d sounded good when they’d spoken. Both times. More than good. She’d sounded happy, actually, as if an afternoon with her best friend was exactly what the doctor ordered.

  He’d realized then that he’d isolated her a bit too much. Protection was one thing, but keeping her from her friends and family on top of all she’d been through had likely caused more harm than good. Griffin had forgotten, that was all. He’d forgotten what it felt like to need family. To need friends.

  To need anyone.

  He still hated the idea of her so far away, a state away, even if it were just a twenty-minute car ride from midtown Manhattan. Once he had her safe and sound in his sights at her father’s place—her place, he amended—he’d be loathe to let her go again.

  As they neared the familiar reception desk with its posted rules and regulations, its big board of activities and the dining room menus and various announcements, Griffin was hit in the stomach with a sharp jab of memories of the last time he saw his father.

  He was dead already, his broken body still on the scaffolding outside the building. It ran the length of the second floor; his father had jumped from the fourth and top floor and it had been enough to break his neck, which apparently had been Frederick Fargo’s goal. As a doctor, his father would have known just how to throw himself, how to land, to achieve his goal. Had he been lucid at the moment, that was. His main doctor at Longwood thought his father had been lucid when he’d jumped; he’d had several such moments during the six months he’d been at the facility. Short-lived. A few hours. Once for two days.

  Griffin had waited several hours afterward to try to reach Declan. He wasn’t sure if Declan would receive the many messages he’d left at various numbers. And then a couple of weeks after, Declan had left a message on Griffin’s home machine.

  Glad to know the old jerk has been put out of his misery.

  That was it.

  Griffin forced thoughts of his father, of Declan, out of his head as he and Joey signed in and then headed up in the elevator to his dad’s room. Griffin was all too familiar with the floor, the way it would smell, a bit like Lysol, and Ace bandages, and medicine, and flowers. There were so many bouquets of flowers in the rooms, in the halls, that Griffin was surprised the place didn’t smell like a meadow. People brought flowers when they visited. And cake. Griffin had always been sent home with slices of other people’s cake. There had been something oddly comforting in that.

  Joey’s dad, Harry, sat in a wheelchair by the window, his favorite spot, and stared out. He turned when Joey entered and said, “Hey, Gramps,” as he often did. Back when Griffin had first met Joey, the guy had been torn apart by that, but now, a couple of months in, Joey had almost come to rely on it for measure that his dad was okay. “Gramps” meant he wasn’t agitated. Apparently, Joey’s dad had been raised by his grandparents and had been crazy for his grandfather. And it was just fine with Joey now to be confused with that person, that connection.

  Twenty minutes later, Griffin realized that staring at his watch every second would make Joey feel rushed, so he stepped out into the hallway. Ivy was late in calling. She should have arrived at the secret apartment ten minutes ago, even with traffic.

  He called her cell phone. It rang five times before it went to voice mail. Which meant that the phone was on and wasn’t picking up.

  A chill ran up his spine.

  She’s turning in to the parking garage, he assured himself, and just can’t get to the phone at this moment. He’d give her a minute, then try again.

  Same response. She didn’t pick up.

  Two minutes and much pacing later, the same thing.

  Something was wrong.

  Griffin grabbed his wallet for the sheet of paper with Alanna’s cell phone number. He called, and she picked up right away. She’d left Ivy at her car, just a minute before Ivy had last spoken to Griffin.

  Where the hell is she?

  Ivy opened her eyes, pain shooting from her ankle, from her head.

  What the—?

  And then she remembered. The woman. A basement. Stairs.

  She was on the cement floor, her legs tied with rope. The basement was dark, a dim bare lightbulb on a pull cord the only source of light.

  Was she alone? Or was her assailant still here?

  A sharp stab of pain made Ivy wince as she tried to sit up so that she could work on the knot around her legs. Why tie her legs but leave her hands free?

  “Go ahead, exhaust yourself trying to undo that knot, Princess. You’ll just make my job easier.”

  Ivy frantically looked around for the woman, but she was hiding or in the shadows. “Can you please tell me who you are and what you want?”

  “Aren’t we polite? I suppose that’s what a topnotch education does. Even in a crisis, you say please.” The voice dripped with venom. The woman hated Ivy, that much was clear. But why?

  When Ivy had first seen the brunette at the party, she sensed that the woman was working with Declan in some capacity, his partner in con. Though how or in what capacity, she had no idea. But perhaps the woman was one of Declan’s lovers? If she were, would she be calling Ivy a rich bitch? Rich women generally didn’t throw that term around.

  Resentful women did.

  “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, despite how helpful I was to you.” This was accompanied by a hard kick in the back of Ivy’s thigh.

  She yelped in pain. She hadn’t even seen the woman come near. So she must be behind her, behind the boiler?

  “But that’s how you people are,” the woman continued. “You don’t notice us. People who actually work for a living.”

  “I’m a police officer, not Paris Hilton,” Ivy said. If she could figure out how to talk to this psycho, how to gain her trust, she might get herself out of there alive.

  A hard kick in t
he ribs was the woman’s response. Pain shot through Ivy’s torso and back.

  “My name is Gretchen Black. But that wouldn’t mean anything to you. I’m more than just the woman who trashed your pathetic little house and left you some threats on the walls and mirrors, by the way.”

  Well, that mystery was solved.

  Ivy searched her memory. She couldn’t remember ever having met a Gretchen before. Gretchen Black, she thought. Think, Ivy. You must have heard that name somewhere. Where?

  “Keep thinking,” the woman said. “It won’t come to you.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me,” Ivy said, sick of the lunatic’s games.

  “Okay, I’ll give you a really good hint. Listen closely now: Welcome to Sedgwick Enterprises. How may I assist you?” she said, her voice changing in an instant from mean and snarling to professional and crisp.

  Ah. Of course. That was where Ivy had seen the woman! The one time Ivy had gone to visit Declan at the Sedgwick offices in Manhattan, this Gretchen Black person had been the receptionist for Declan’s floor.

  “You probably still don’t remember me, though, Ivy Tower,” she added. “You came looking for Declan McLean. And I told you he was in a meeting with the senior vice president of his division and would be out shortly. And you believed me, like an idiot. I kept you waiting for almost an hour. Idiot.”

  Ivy remembered. She’d been so nervous that day, going to her father’s offices, albeit a different floor than the chairman and president and chief everything officer or whatever her father’s title had been. But as she’d gotten off the elevator, she’d realized that she was here for Declan, that he was completely separate from her father, and she’d relaxed.

  She also remembered her exchange with the receptionist because it had been so awkward.

  “Welcome to Sedgwick Enterprises. How may I assist you?” the receptionist had said in that same formal, professional tone.

  “Good afternoon,” Ivy had responded. “I’m here to see Declan McLean. He’s expecting me.”

  “Your name?”

  “Ivy.”

  “And your last name?”

  It was then Ivy had faltered. It was very strange to say that you were a Sedgwick when visiting Sedgwick Enterprises. “Sedgwick,” she’d finally said.

  “Sedgwick? As in William Sedgwick?”

  Ivy had nodded uncomfortably, and the receptionist had smiled and said, “I’ll bet this is sort of how John F. Kennedy Jr. must have felt every time he traveled through JFK airport.”

  “Well, I’m hardly in John Jr.’s league.”

  The woman had smiled, somewhat tightly, Ivy recalled now, and informed Ivy that Declan was in a meeting and would be out shortly.

  Declan had invited her to lunch in Manhattan; he’d thought it would be good for her to see her father’s offices—see that it was just a business and not the castle with moats and forts that Ivy had expected. And he’d been right.

  When Ivy had realized she’d been sitting in the reception chair for forty-five minutes, she’d approached the receptionist, who’d said she would call the meeting room. The woman had spoken briefly to Declan, and apparently, he would be out in another fifteen minutes. Would she wait?

  Of course she would. Another half hour, Ivy told the receptionist that she’d have to go. She was due back at work and the drive back to Applewood often took a half hour.

  Declan had been so apologetic that night on the phone and promised to make it up to her with dinner that weekend, which he had, though now that Ivy thought about it, she had ended up doing the cooking that night because he’d sprained his wrist while playing racquetball with an important client.

  Right. Right all the way.

  “It was so much fun to see you waiting and waiting, squirming in that uncomfortable chair for an hour!” the woman said, laughing. “Oh, I so enjoyed that.” She appeared from behind the boiler and stepped around Ivy. “You’re such a dummy!”

  Ivy chose to ignore that, instead focusing on the knife in Gretchen’s hand. She had to keep her cool, had to keep herself in control here. “Was Declan even working there at that point?”

  “Barely. Declan had no idea what he was doing. He was blackmailing one of the other junior analysts into doing his work for him for a while. But Declan could only fake his way through for so long.”

  “You helped, I assume.”

  The woman stared at her, her brown eyes narrowing. “Do you know what happens when you assume, Ivy Tower? You make an ass out of you and me.” She laughed jovially but then immediately sobered up. “And I don’t like being made into an ass.”

  God, she was bonkers. Off her rocker.

  “But you assume correctly,” she continued, pointing the knife at Ivy. “I did help. Do you want to know why?”

  “Because you loved him?” Ivy said gently, hoping this was her ticket in. Or out, actually.

  All her question earned her was another kick, this time at her lower leg. Ivy winced in pain. She was going to be very black and blue at this rate.

  “Love, Ivy Tower. Not loved. Not past tense. What’s past is your relationship with Declan.”

  “But you must know ...” Ivy hesitated, unsure what would get her another hard kick or worse.

  Gretchen stared at her. “I must know what? That Declan is involved with other women? So? He doesn’t love them. All that matters is that I got rid of the one he did love.”

  Ivy froze. Did she just confess to killing Jennifer Lexington? Keep her talking, Ivy, she counseled herself. And be careful.

  “So you killed Jennifer,” Ivy said nonchalantly.

  Confusion lit the woman’s eyes. “Jennifer? That stupid slut? My God, she was as dumb as an ox. No, I didn’t kill Jennifer. I planned to, but then someone accomplished that for me.”

  “Who?” Ivy asked.

  Gretchen shrugged.

  “Declan?” Ivy suggested.

  That got Ivy yet another kick in the leg. “Stupid bitch. Declan wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Ivy rubbed her shin. “So you don’t know who killed Jennifer?”

  “I don’t care who killed Jennifer. But that little murder solved my problem.”

  “Your problem—of getting rid of the one he loved?”

  She nodded. “I tried to set up a little catfight, but it ended up not working. But then, bizarrely, everything worked out according to plan. Funny how that happens!”

  What?

  “A catfight?” Ivy asked. “Between who?”

  “Whom, dear. A woman with your advantages should really know how to form a grammatical question.”

  Oh, brother. “Between whom?” she tried again.

  “That other slut Laura Frozier and Jennifer. I arranged for Jennifer to come across her fiancé with his tongue down Laura’s throat.”

  Ivy gasped. “So he was in love with Laura? You were trying to get rid of Laura by having Jennifer confront her, maybe? You figured Jennifer would flip out right there and then, confront Dennis, as I believe he called himself, and therefore, ruin his good thing with Laura, who thought she was Declan’s one and only?”

  “You’re too stupid for words!” Gretchen said, sneering, waving the knife for emphasis.

  Okay, what was Ivy missing here?

  “You. You are the one Declan loved.”

  Ivy’s eyebrow shot up. “Me?”

  “He was in love with you. He thought you were the salt of the earth, or whatever that stupid cliché is. Sweet and good and made of puppy dog tails. Or is that what boys are made of?” She seemed to think for a moment.

  “I’m not following how setting up a catfight between Laura and Jennifer would get rid of me,” Ivy said.

  “My intention was to prevent the wedding. Your wedding to Declan.”

  Gretchen wasn’t making any sense!

  “If you wanted to prevent the wedding or destroy our relationship, why not just set me up to discover Declan was involved with another woman. Make that plural.”

  The woman’s boot
landed directly in the middle of Ivy’s abdomen. Ivy clutched her stomach and bent over, vomiting blood. She fell over on her side, dizzy, nauseous.

  Gretchen now stood right next to Ivy, then kneeled down and poked the knife at the side of Ivy’s neck. “Don’t you talk about Declan like that. You make him sound like he’s a cheater.” She dug the knife in enough to draw blood, and the trickle made its wet, sticky way around the front of Ivy’s neck.

  Because Ivy’s hands were free, it would be so easy to try to wrestle the knife away, but her feet wouldn’t get very far, and she’d risk being killed. This psycho meant business.

  “Declan loved you,” Gretchen said. “If I arranged to have you find out about Jennifer or Laura or the others he was working on as backups, you’d dump him. Or that’s what I figured, given how goody-two-shoes he made you out to be.”

  “But isn’t that what you’d want? Me to dump him?”

  “And have him heartbroken?” she asked, shaking her head. “When you love someone, you don’t want their heart broken. I figured if I arranged a catfight between the sluts, the heat would be on and he’d have to flee the country. He’d take me with him, since I’m his right-hand woman.”

  “But there wasn’t a catfight,” Ivy said. “So you went to Jennifer’s apartment with the intention of killing her?” It still made no sense. It wouldn’t accomplish what she wanted. Or at least Ivy thought not. She was beginning to think in circles.

  “I thought if I killed Jennifer, he’d look guilty. He wouldn’t be able to marry his precious Ivy Tower. He’d have to flee the country. And he would take me with him, as previously stated.”

  Ah. Okay.

  “But you said you didn’t kill Jennifer.” Tell me who did, Ivy prayed silently.

  “I don’t know who did. As I was heading toward the building, someone was coming out. An older woman, I think. In sunglasses and a hat and a long white trench coat. Who wears a white trench before Memorial Day? I mean, really.”

  Ivy’s blood froze. A white trench coat. An older woman.