Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  Ivy’s mother had a new white trench coat. A long one. And she’d worn it a few times, despite the still cold March weather.

  Ivy’s mother had killed Jennifer Lexington.

  Oh God. No. No, no, no. Mom.

  But it made sense. Her mother must have seen Jennifer and Declan together. Kissing, perhaps. And her mother had followed Jennifer to her apartment. The photos alone would have enraged her mother. But instead of racing off to confront Declan or tell Ivy what was happening, her mother had snapped and lunged for Jennifer, bashing her head into the wall.

  No way. Her mother wouldn’t have done such a thing. But the problem was that her mother did seem ... capable of such a thing. She would do anything to see Ivy married to Declan, the supposed wealthy, accomplished son of her dear departed friend, who supposedly had left Declan oodles of money.

  No. It was crazy. Her mother was not a killer!

  Then why did it seem so possible?

  Where was her mother the morning Jennifer had been killed? She’d called Ivy very early. At around seven. She’d wanted to come with Ivy to William’s attorney’s office to pick up the inheritance letter. And when Ivy had told her no, her mother had rattled on about the day of beauty she had planned for her daughter’s wedding that evening. She was having her hair styled, and a manicure and pedicure. And she’d had all that done.

  If she’d killed Jennifer Lexington in a rage, would she have been able to calmly sit and have her nails polished?

  Maybe. Ivy could recall a time or two when her mother had been enraged. Even when Ivy had been in school, and passed over for this or that, such as the glee club or the lead in a play, her mother had threatened at least two of Ivy’s teachers, promising to ruin their careers and lives.

  “I could slit your throat right now,” Gretchen said, tracing a line across Ivy’s neck with the tip of the knife. “But I want you to suffer just a bit longer before I carve your perfect little heart up into food for my pit bull. Maybe I’ll sic him on you just after I plunge the knife into your gut. Pumpkin just loves the smell of blood.”

  It was all too much for Ivy. She felt dizzy, white stars floating behind her eyes, then a strange flash of light burst out of nowhere in her mind. She felt so light-headed, but in a good way almost. Griffin’s handsome face floated into her mind and she tried to smile, but couldn’t.

  And then she felt herself drifting ... fading, the world turning black as she fell over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When the seamstress at Best Bridal came back to the telephone and told Griffin that yes, a red Honda Civic with Ivy’s plates was still parked outside her shop, he broke more than a few traffic laws to get to Applewood.

  The car was locked and there were no signs of a struggle.

  Damn it, where is she? Griffin thought, dread hitting him in the stomach. He headed into the shops that lined Main Street to ask if anyone had seen Ivy Sedgwick or anything out of the ordinary in the past hour.

  No one had seen Ivy. No one had seen anything suspicious.

  Ivy couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.

  He began questioning people on the surrounding streets. But the response was the same. He even stopped a group of ten-year-olds on their bicycles.

  “Hey, kids, I’m a New York City detective,” he said, showing them his badge.

  “Wow,” one said, looking at it up close and fingering the shield.

  “Shut up, Conner,” another hissed. “Or you’ll get thrown in jail.”

  Griffin hid his smile. “Have you been doing something that might get you thrown in jail?”

  “We didn’t steal any cars,” a red-haired boy said. “We just wanted to see if we could climb the fence. You know, at the auto body shop. Cuz when the mechanics are there, they chase us with these big wrenches.”

  “Well, you boys are not going to jail, okay?” Griffin said. “I used to climb a few fences when I was a kid, too. So, tell me, when you were riding around in the last hour, did you see a pretty woman with short brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a red coat?”

  “You mean Officer Sedgwick?” Conner said. “She’s always nice to us. Once she caught us jumping in Mrs. Stupidhead’s flower garden and she didn’t even yell at us or tell our moms or anything. Mrs. Stupidhead is evil.”

  Griffin kneeled down in front of the boy, his heart racing. “Did you see Officer Sedgwick a little while ago?”

  “A long time ago, though. Like, maybe an hour?” Conner said.

  “Yeah, she was running down Morley Street,” the curly-haired boy said. “But she didn’t have her gun out or anything. We were hoping to see her catch some bad guys.”

  “Were there bad guys?” Griffin asked, his mind racing.

  The redhead shook his head. “Just some lady. Officer Sedgwick was running after her, but the lady was, like, hiding in doorways.”

  “They were playing hide-and-seek, I think,” the freckled blond boy said.

  “What did this lady look like?” Griffin asked. “Do you remember?”

  “She sorta looked like Officer Sedgwick, but she wasn’t like a babe at all,” the little redhead put in. “Brown puffy hair, not long or short. I think she had a dark coat on.”

  “Where’s Morley Street?” Griffin asked. “Can you show me?”

  “Cool!” they all said in unison and sped two blocks down on their bikes.

  Griffin ran after them. They stopped at the intersection of Morley Street and Applewood Boulevard. “Okay, guys, this is really important. Did you see Officer Sedgwick go into one of the buildings?”

  Conner pointed to a brick tenement walk-up with a red door three-quarters of the way down the block. “I remember it was that one, cuz the screen’s busted.”

  The redhead nodded. “Yeah, and—hey, look, there’s the lady she was chasing.”

  Griffin slid his gaze to the woman walking out of a building at the far end of the block, then turned his attention back to the boys. “Thanks, kids,” he said, handing Conner a twenty. “You split that between all of you. Okay?”

  “Cool!” they shouted and sped off on their bikes.

  The woman was walking directly toward him. He was at enough of a distance that he could pull out his cell phone and call 911 to request backup, while appearing to the woman to be making a simple phone call.

  He’d make his move at exactly the right moment. He didn’t want to do anything that might spook her too soon and make her run. If she got away from him, he’d be screwed. As would Ivy. He didn’t know this neighborhood.

  As she got within one hundred yards, he adopted his most pleasant expression, adding a mix of confusion. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m lost. I’m looking for the auto body shop? I was told it was on Morley Street.”

  She turned to point down toward the dead end, and he grabbed her and had her prone on the ground in seconds. He cuffed her, and that was when he realized there was blood smeared on her hand.

  “Where is Ivy Sedgwick?” he demanded.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” the woman singsonged.

  “Where is she?” he demanded again.

  “She’s dead, you pig,” she said, turning to spit at him.

  Griffin wanted to take his hands and wrap them around her neck, but he controlled himself with every fiber of his being. Within minutes, backup had arrived, two Applewood PD patrol cars stopping in front of him.

  He explained the situation, and two of the officers led the woman away none too gently; the other two followed him down to the building the boys had indicated. One radioed their captain to inform him one of their own was in trouble.

  As they burst into the vestibule of the building, Griffin found the inside door was locked. He pressed the intercom marked with SUPERINTENDENT. A man appeared and rushed over to open the door when Griffin flashed his badge.

  “Ivy!” Griffin shouted. “Ivy!”

  No answer. He ran the length of the first floor to check behind the stairs. No Ivy. But there was a door leading to the basemen
t. Griffin tried it. Locked.

  “That’s the basement,” the superintendent said, unlocking it.

  Griffin called out Ivy’s name again at the top of the steps. No response. He raced down, the uniformed officers trailing.

  And then he saw her, lying in a pool of blood, a purple and black bruise on one side of her face. He ran over to her and checked her pulse.

  Please, please, please, he prayed heavenward.

  And was answered. She was alive.

  The uniforms radioed for an ambulance, and within minutes, Griffin heard the sirens. He held on to Ivy’s hand until the paramedics had her on the stretcher, and then they rushed her up the stairs and into the ambulance.

  After he was assured that CSI was on its way to secure the site and investigate the crime scene, Griffin headed to Applewood General.

  And there, for the first time since he was a boy, Griffin Fargo cried.

  She was going to be okay.

  Griffin sat by Ivy’s bedside at Applewood General, half the local police department in the hallways and waiting room.

  Alanna, sitting on the other side of Ivy’s bed, was beside herself. “If only I’d stayed one minute longer to see her actually drive off, none of this would have happened.”

  “The psychopath would have trailed her into Manhattan and gotten her in the parking garage,” Griffin said. “You wouldn’t have been able to prevent it, Alanna.”

  Alanna’s fiancé, a resident at the hospital, was assigned to Ivy, and that made for faster and more straightforward information. He stopped in to check Ivy’s vitals, assuring them again that she would be as good as new with rest and recuperation.

  Ivy would be able to go home tomorrow morning; her stab wounds were superficial, and despite the kicks she took to the legs and torso, she hadn’t broken any bones or ribs. She’d been given a sedative and was still sleeping.

  “Should I call Ivy’s mom?” Alanna asked Griffin. “She’s been vacationing in the Bahamas all week. She’s due back tomorrow. Maybe I should just wait?”

  “I think that’s best,” Griffin said. “She’ll just be worried sick on the plane. And Ivy will be out of it for the rest of today anyway.”

  Alanna nodded, her eyes cloudy with tears and concern. She’d been sitting in the chair for over an hour, unwilling to let go of Ivy’s hand for even a moment. Griffin knew how she felt. He’d been holding on to Ivy’s other hand; even that slight physical contact was as necessary to him at that moment as breathing was.

  Griffin was sorry he’d doubted Alanna, been suspicious of her. She was Ivy’s best friend and her love for Ivy had been made clear to him in the past hour that they’d held their vigil at Ivy’s bedside.

  Griffin had never had many friends. He’d been unable to trust his own family—his brother, his father. And so he hadn’t put much stock in friendships. It wasn’t until he met Joey at Longmere that he learned about friendship, how completely innocent and unconditional it could be. How it meant simply giving a damn. And being there.

  Finally, though, Alanna had to leave; her captain allowed her to take full part in the case, and Alanna thought she could do Ivy more favors by questioning Gretchen Black and investigating her background fully. Griffin assured her he’d call her when Ivy woke up.

  One of the officers brought Griffin a large cup of strong black coffee, for which he was very thankful. He continued to sit next to Ivy, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He hated the sight of her bruised cheek, the marks on her neck from where the knife had made contact. The weapon had been recovered from Gretchen Black’s tote bag. It was very sharp. Ivy must have been scared out of her mind.

  Because of the nature of the crime, Griffin had been allowed to remain in her room overnight as her protective detail. He’d been apprised of Gretchen Black’s initial statement to police; apparently, the former Sedgwick Enterprises receptionist liked to speak in singsong, and she told officers that she would tell them only what she’d revealed to Ivy.

  Such as the information about an older woman in a white trench coat, whom she’d supposedly seen leaving Jennifer Lexington’s building as she’d been about to go in. Gretchen claimed she herself hadn’t gone in. A crowd of people had gathered in front of the building to hail cabs, not quick on a Friday night, and Gretchen had been unwilling to risk being seen entering the building when she had murder on her mind.

  So who was the older woman in the white trench coat? Witnesses he’d originally spoken to didn’t recall seeing either an older woman in a white coat or someone matching Gretchen’s description.

  Griffin let out a deep breath as dawn broke, morning’s first rays of light trying to make their way through the cheap metal window blinds.

  When Ivy slowly opened her eyes, he was sitting at her bedside. She tried to speak, but her voice was groggy, and her eyes closed again. Griffin put a finger to her lips and told her to rest, that he’d been apprised of Gretchen Black’s statement.

  She began to cry. As tears streamed down her face, Griffin tried to gently wipe them away.

  “You’re okay, Ivy.”

  She shook her head. “Is my mother under arrest?”

  “Your mother?”

  She stared at him, then closed her eyes again.

  He had a feeling he now knew the identity of their mystery woman. The lady in the white trench coat.

  “Your mother is not under arrest, Ivy. She’s still in the Bahamas, as a matter of fact. I was going to try to reach her at her hotel to let her know you were in the hospital, but I thought I’d just hold off since she’s due back tomorrow.”

  Relief seemed to flood her face. “She couldn’t have done it. She couldn’t.”

  “Honey, don’t even think about it right now,” he said, tracing a finger down her cheek. “Or at least try not to think about it. Your entire body is going to be very sore for the next several days. I just want you to concentrate on healing. Emotionally and physically, Ivy. Alanna was here for hours, and now she’s investigating Gretchen’s past. And your entire department is in the waiting room.”

  She gave a little nod and squeezed his hand, then closed her eyes again. He leaned back in his chair, resting his head against its uncomfortable edge, and figured he’d try to get the hour or two of sleep that had eluded him all night.

  Griffin opened the passenger side of his car, very gently scooped up Ivy in his arms, and carried her inside the vestibule of her father’s secret home. On the way into Manhattan, he’d asked if she’d prefer his place or this one, and she felt they’d be safest here, since no one knew about it but them.

  He opened door after steel door, finally entering the apartment. After laying Ivy down on the bed and covering her with the blanket, he went into the bathroom to draw her a bath. He found some pink bath beads and bubble bath in the medicine cabinet, and he poured some in, then set two thick towels on the rack.

  When he returned to the bedroom, she was standing by the bureau, looking at the photographs of herself.

  “Ivy?”

  “My mother is not a killer,” she said, tears falling down her cheeks.

  “We’ll get to the truth, Ivy. That’s all we can do.”

  “My mother is not a killer,” she repeated, and then her legs dropped out from under her.

  Griffin was at her side in one stride, and he scooped her in his arms and carried her into the bathroom. “I thought you could use a hot bath.”

  She nodded, the tears coming faster. He undressed her, removing her sweater and her bra and then her jeans, underwear, and socks. He tested the water with his wrist and then picked her up again and gently set her down in the tub. She laid her head back against the plastic pillow and closed her eyes.

  “I have no idea who I am anymore,” she said numbly.

  He sat down on the marble floor and leaned against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Ivy, you’ve just been through something traumatic. On top of everything else. You need to cut yourself a very big break. For the next several
days, you’re on couch rest. You’re watching fun television shows and reading magazines. That’s it.”

  “There’s no way I can lay around doing nothing,” she said. “Not when my mother might be—”

  “Ivy, we don’t even know if we can believe a word Gretchen said. She’s clearly out of her mind.”

  Ivy nodded. “I know.”

  “How’s the water?”

  She offered a weak smile. “Feels good. And my entire body feels like a bunch of linebackers jumped on me.” She was quiet for a moment. “I screwed up again, Griffin. I was chasing her, and all of a sudden, she had me. Just like what happened with Declan at Cornelia’s party.”

  “You didn’t screw up, Ivy. You were set up.”

  She didn’t seem to be buying that. But it was true. “I just don’t even know where I’m supposed to be anymore. Between the debacle that was my wedding and what happened today, if I never stepped foot in Applewood again, it would be too soon.”

  “Understandable,” he said.

  “So what does that mean for my job? Do I even want to be a cop anymore? Should I be? I certainly can’t be a cop under these kinds of circumstances—investigating my own mother for murder.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

  Griffin’s heart squeezed in his chest. He moved closer to to the tub, taking her soapy hand. “Ivy, hey,” he said. “You don’t need to figure anything out right now. And you know what? Your mother owns a long white trench. So do a lot of people. It’s not so unusual. Manhattan’s not a small town. The woman who Gretchen described could have been anyone.”

  “But it sounds a lot like my mom,” she whispered. “I’m just so scared it is. My mother has her faults, Griffin, but I love her.”

  “So let’s give her the benefit of the doubt, okay?” Griffin said. “Innocent until proven a suspect. Isn’t that how it goes?”

  She smiled. “I wish this were all over.”

  “And it will be over soon, Ivy. We can only investigate what seems plausible and try to waste as little time as possible on wild-goose chases.”

  “God, I wish I were more like you, tough, strong. A rock. I mean, here you are, hunting your brother and you’re not falling apart.”