Shadowing Ivy

by Janelle Taylor

  “And can you tell me what happened?” Griffin asked.

  “Well, I wasn’t even planning to go there,” Dana said, heading back to the sofa and sitting down. “I mean, what’s a little dalliance, right? That’s what men do. They have affairs. They can’t keep their zippers up. Men are simply not monogamous creatures. Trust me, I know.”

  Ivy glanced at Griffin. His expression was the typical detective’s detached compassion, conveying to the suspect that yes, of course, who wouldn’t have felt that way? while not actually commenting on anything. Doing so could lead the suspect off course, on tangents, and away from confessing. He would let her mother tell the story in her way in her own time.

  “But the hair salon where I was having my hair, nails, and makeup done for the wedding was actually just two blocks from that girl’s apartment. So I went there.”

  “How did you know where she lived?” Ivy asked.

  Dana turned to Ivy, seeming surprised, relieved, really, that Ivy had spoken to her. “I ... well, I followed her. She and Declan had come out of the Starbucks and gone in separate directions. I knew better than to confront Declan, since it’s not like he could help seeing other women. Men, as I’ve said, are men, after all. I wanted to confront the woman, let her know that Declan had a fiancée so that maybe she’d dump him. Women are much more moral than men.”

  “And did you confront her?” Ivy asked, stunned that all this was going on behind her back. While she was testing lipstick colors for her wedding, thinking that was her biggest problem, her fiancé was making out with his other fiancée in Starbucks, and her mother was chasing down the “other woman.” Unbelievable.

  “Well, I followed her for a couple of blocks, planning my big speech, but then she went into an apartment building, so I didn’t get the chance. I stood there in front of the building for a few minutes, and when a man came out, I asked him if he knew the name of the woman who’d just gone in. I told him I thought she was an old friend but wasn’t sure. He told me her name was Jennifer Lexington, and I told him that she wasn’t who I thought she was, and hurried away.”

  “And then you went back, the morning of Ivy’s wedding?” Griffin asked.

  Dana nodded. “As I said, I didn’t plan to. I’d washed my hands of the whole matter. My concern was that the wedding go off without a hitch, that Ivy marry such a catch. But I just couldn’t pass that building without telling her to leave my soon-to-be son-in-law alone. So I marched across the street, ready to tell that slut to keep her hands off Declan.”

  “Mom,” Ivy said, realizing full well she was stalling for time, for anything to keep her mother from saying the words that were surely to follow. “Can you tell me what you were wearing that morning?”

  “Wearing?” Dana repeated, her brows furrowed. “Let’s see. It was such a warm morning. Remember? Fifty degrees at seven in the morning. So I put on my gorgeous new Donna Karan white trench. Oh, do I love that. I wore it every time it rained in the Bahamas, and oh, the compliments I got!”

  Ivy took in a very deep breath. Again, she felt Griffin’s gaze on her, felt him telling her to be strong, to just listen. Felt him assuring her that he was there for her.

  “And then what happened?” Griffin asked.

  “Well, I was about to march right up to the intercom and press that thing really hard, to make sure it was extra loud, and wake up that slut and tell her to find her own man. But then Donovan, my stylist, called me over—he’d just gotten out of a taxi on the corner.” Dana looked at Ivy’s hair. “I wish you’d gone to Donny, Ivy. He would have talked you into going blond for the wedding. Or at least a lighter brown, with chunkier highlights. I think yours are way too subtle.”

  “So Donovan called you over to him?” Ivy prompted, about to implode.

  “Yes, he called me over, and I said up to the windows, ‘To hell with you, slutty. My baby is marrying Declan. And that’s all that matters. Karma will get you.’ And then I ran across the street to meet Donny and he opened up his salon. Isn’t that wonderful that he opened at seven-thirty just for me? Just so I’d have perfectly freshly colored hair on the day of my baby’s wedding? I gave him some tip, too. And you’re not even supposed to tip the owner of the salon. He took me two shades lighter than normal, and I think it suits me. I hope the Bahamian sun and surf didn’t make it too brassy. What do you think, honey?”

  Ivy stared at her mother, a joyful relief bubbling inside her. “Mom, are you telling me that you didn’t go into the building? You didn’t go up to Jennifer’s apartment? You didn’t speak to her?”

  Dana shook her head. “What was more important? Wasting my breath or making sure I had a good six hours to have my hair cut and colored and styled. Color takes a while, dear. And I needed to have my nails and makeup done, afterward, then a good few hours to dress and accessorize. I wanted to get to the church a couple of hours early to meet and greet. It’s not every day I get to be mother of the bride.” Tears came to her eyes. “Of course, I didn’t get to be, after all. Oh, thank God I planned that vacation. It restored my sense of self.”

  Ivy smiled and hugged her mother so tightly that she winced in pain. What mattered right now was that unprompted, her mother had fully admitted to being in front of Jennifer Lexington’s apartment, in the outfit described by the witness, albeit a psychopath witness, and then stated that she did not go inside the building. And a much more credible witness, the owner of the hair salon, could corroborate her story and the exact time.

  Of course, it was still possible that her mother had run into Donovan after going into Jennifer’s apartment, after bashing her head into the wall. But would her white trench coat be so white? Wouldn’t it have been splattered with Jennifer’s blood? She couldn’t possibly have come out of Jennifer’s apartment at seven-thirty and gone straight to Donovan. She would have been freaked out, surely, not to mention bloody.

  Her mother did not kill Jennifer. And from the look on Griffin’s face, he’d come to the same conclusion, as well. Or, at the very least, she was much lower on the suspect list than she’d been a half hour ago.

  “So you’re okay, sweetie?” Dana asked Ivy. “The good detective here will catch Declan and that awful hench-woman and your life will go back to normal?”

  Ivy nodded. “Yes.” As normal as could be expected.

  “You’ll meet someone else, Ivy. Someone wonderful. In fact, why don’t I introduce you to Poppy Harway’s nephew? He’s a dentist. And let me tell you, dentists make a good living.”

  Ivy smiled. “That’s okay, Mom. But thanks.” Ivy stood up. “Detective Fargo, can I speak with you for a moment?” She led him into the kitchen. “Okay?” she whispered. “Is she off the list?”

  “That’ll take verifying,” he said.

  “I’d like to stay here with her, have lunch. I’m just so relieved, Griffin. You have no idea. I feel like I’ve been given my mother back. And now all I want to do is spend some time with her.”

  He stared at her. “The last time I let you out of my sight ...”

  “I know,” she said. “But Gretchen Black is behind bars. And Declan isn’t after me, Griffin. If he was, he would have killed me when he had the chance.”

  He let out a breath. “I’ll go verify what your mother said and meet up with my partner. Are you absolutely safe here, Ivy?”

  She nodded. “She might talk my ear off, but that’s the worst of it. Can’t be more painful than my shin at the moment.”

  He reached up a hand and caressed her bruised cheek, those dark, dark eyes intense on hers. But intensely emotional.

  I love you, I love you, I love you, she said silently. Clearly they had some telepathic ability—aka amazing chemistry—so maybe he did know what she was thinking.

  She didn’t mind anymore. She loved him like crazy and she wanted him to know. But she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t put that on him right now . . . just in case he didn’t feel the same way. And Ivy honestly didn’t know if he did or didn’t.

  “Listen, Ivy. I
will meet you back at the secret apartment,” he whispered, “at exactly six o’clock. Triple check that you have your cell phone if you go anywhere with your mom, okay?”

  “Six o’clock,” she repeated, squeezing his hand.

  When the door closed behind him, her mother said, “Handsome. What do detectives make these days?”

  Ivy laughed. “Mom, don’t be so focused on money.”

  “Money does buy happiness, Ivy. This past week, what were you able to do for yourself? You probably couldn’t even afford a massage.”

  “I have a pretty good nest egg, Mom. It’s called working hard and saving money for the future.”

  Dana waved her hand dismissively in the air. “It’s just as easy to marry rich as to marry a schlub.” She then launched into a long story about her friend Ellen, who married a high school math teacher and was now forced to vacation only once a year in Florida. That actually sounded very nice to Ivy, but she knew better than to even try to open her mother’s mind.

  With a smile, Ivy settled down on the sofa as her mother made a pot of coffee. She’d almost forgotten that the best way to forget her troubles was to spend a little time in her mother’s fantasy world.

  After an hour at the precinct and a meeting with his partner and captain, Griffin headed to Donovan’s Salon.

  Nice place. Marble floors, a huge arrangement of fresh flowers on the reception desk, and some New Age music coming from the speakers. Griffin showed the woman at the front desk his badge, and in moments, Donovan appeared.

  “Detective, what can I do for you?” the young man asked, his greenish snakeskin pants so tight Griffin wondered how he breathed. The man eyed Griffin’s hair. “I’d say just a trim, really. You have great hair,” he added, his hands suddenly on Griffin’s head.

  “Whoa,” Griffin said, stepping back. “I’m actually here to ask a few questions about a murder that occurred nearby.”

  He grimaced. “Oooh, yes, we all heard about that.” He gestured to a black leather chair. “Well, hop on, and we can talk and get you groomed at the same time.”

  Griffin eyed himself in the mirror. He could use a trim, he supposed. He usually went to an ancient barber who had one of those old-fashioned joints with the swiveling pole, but while he was here, he might as well save time.

  You want to look good for Ivy, he chided his reflection as Donovan settled a black cape over him. Yup, he did. Nothing wrong with wanting to look good for the woman you love.

  He bolted up.

  “Buddy, you are damned lucky I’m not giving you an old-fashioned shave, or you would have been sliced. Ever see those old Clint Eastwood movies where the barber sharpens his razor on a hanging strip of leather? Man, I love those classics. And the Dirty Harry ones, too. ‘Go ahead, make my day.’ Hey, ever say that to a perp?”

  No wonder Donovan and Dana Sedgwick got along so well. Griffin settled back down on the chair, putting aside his very startling thoughts about his feelings for Ivy, and got to the matter at hand: her mother and the morning of the murder.

  By the time Griffin was settling his tab at reception, he had both a good haircut and the corroboration he’d hoped for.

  Ivy would be happy. And that made him happy.

  After lunch at the trendy new vegetarian restaurant her mother had been dying to try, Ivy and Dana headed back toward her mom’s apartment. After a cloudy, cool morning, the sun had come out, and Ivy slipped her arm through her mother’s, feeling very much at peace. She’d told her mom about the first letter from William Sedgwick, and after a few choice words for her husband of one week, Dana had again swiped dismissively at the air.

  “You’re doing just fine without his stupid money,” her mother had said over their soy and seitan lunches. And coming from her mother, that was one hell of a compliment.

  “So what do you have planned for your first day back?” Ivy asked as they walked up Madison Avenue, naturally her mother’s favorite walking zone.

  “Oh, I just remembered,” Dana said. “I need to go to Tiffany’s to buy Georgia Davenport an engagement gift. Not that she even invited me to the engagement party, which I think is tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Bitch. But do I love Tiffany’s. Come with me, honey.”

  “Tiffany’s makes me feel poor,” Ivy said. “I can’t afford a key chain there.”

  Dana laughed. “But if you don’t come with me, how will you pick out the engagement ring of your dreams?”

  “Mom, I don’t think any engagement rings are in my future.”

  “Oh, I do. I saw the way you and that handsome detective were looking at each other. And do you think I wasn’t spying on you in the kitchen? I saw him touch you.”

  Ivy smiled. “There might be something going on between us.”

  Dana squeezed Ivy’s shoulders. “I must say, dear, you do look happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen you look. And you have every right to look very happy after all you’ve been through. So I’d say you’re in love.”

  Ivy blushed.

  “So do detectives make a decent living?” Dana asked, and then began chattering nonstop about Georgia Davenport’s engagement ring, an heirloom passed down from her grandmother. This would be the second time Georgia gave herself the ring.

  “Georgia scored herself a real catch,” Dana continued. “Young, too. Early thirties and handsome. And she’s pushing fifty. And not exactly a beauty, either. But apparently, it was love at first sight between her and David McKeren. According to Georgie, he’s the son of an oil magnate. A Texan. With a drawl and everything. What do you think I should get them? I don’t know Georgie very well. A candy dish, maybe?”

  Ivy stopped dead in her tracks.

  David McKeven. DM.

  It could be just a coincidence. As Cornelia Beckham’s fiancé’s initials had been. Ivy was sure it was. But a little casual snooping into Georgia Davenport’s life was how Ivy was going to spend the rest of her afternoon.

  As Griffin headed back to his apartment to pack a bag for tonight, he could have sworn someone was following him. That nagging feeling wouldn’t go away, despite no one being behind him on Sixty-second Street but an elderly couple.

  And then he was shoved from behind with such force that his head hit the parked car in front of him. Griffin bolted up. Declan stood at the corner, grinning.

  “Loser!” Declan shouted, then ran.

  Griffin chased him down the street toward Central Park. Damn. There were too many hiding places in the park. He’d lose him.

  Just keep your eyes on him the entire time, he cautioned himself.

  He kept chase, Declan about five hundred feet ahead. Just as he’d thought, Declan ran into the park. Griffin had no doubt Declan was baiting him, leading him into a deserted area where he’d try to either kill him or knock him out as a lesson.

  Payback for Gretchen, maybe.

  Griffin chased after him, for the first time wishing the park didn’t have so many of those damned boulders.

  Where the hell is he?

  “Oh, brother, you looking for me?”

  Declan’s head poked out from behind one of the boulders. Then he ran again, and Griffin leapt from higher ground, tackling Declan.

  It was then that he realized Declan had something in his hand. A brick.

  And before he could even blink, the brick came crashing down on his head. Again. And again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was a good thing that Ivy’s mother was such a fount of knowledge about Georgia Davenport. Ivy knew where she lived, whether or not she preferred the Food Emporium or Gristedes supermarket, that she wore her slacks hemmed too low as though she were Madonna, and where her engagement party was being held. Apparently, Dana didn’t run in Georgia’s much wealthier social circle, and she was spitting mad that the Sedgwick name didn’t open up more doors for her. After all, her mother had argued, it was the name that should matter most.

  Ivy had refrained from laughing.

  But she did learn that Georgia had inherited over three million d
ollars from her late husband, who’d died two years ago. And that the engagement party was being held at Fritz’s, an elegant restaurant in midtown.

  Ivy glanced at her watch. It was now five o’clock. She’d need to meet Griffin at six, and then they’d disguise themselves much better than they originally had, and crash the party. This time, Ivy would not leave Griffin’s side. She wasn’t taking any chances.

  She stopped to call Griffin. No answer. That was unusual. Perhaps he was in conference with his captain? She’d try him again in ten minutes.

  Fritz’s was located just a few blocks up. Ivy figured she’d check it out, survey the entrance and exits, note the surrounding buildings and stores. As Ivy neared the restaurant, she noticed several well-dressed couples going in, one of the women in a full-length fur coat, despite the warm temperature. Could the party have started already? It was five o’clock, so not that early.

  A sign on the glass door said: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE PARTY. Ivy glanced down at her outfit, grateful she’d worn a skirt for the sake of her mother. Her tights and knee-high flat leather boots weren’t exactly fancy-party wear, but she would likely get away with appearing to be part of the catering staff. She slipped inside the crowded entrance. People were just arriving, giving their coats to a woman inside a walk-in closet.

  Ivy slipped past, keeping her head down, and walked toward the swinging doors of the kitchen, which were down a hallway. Inside, chefs were bustling at stations, and the waitstaff, wearing red aprons, were hurrying with trays of hors d’oeuvres. Ivy saw a coatrack with several aprons hanging and grabbed one, slipping into it nonchalantly.

  “Hey, you!” snapped a voice.

  Ivy whirled around. A man wearing a red apron marched up to her. “You’re late, first of all. And second of all, all waiters, including ones from the catering place, must wear these red hats.” He reached into a box and placed one on Ivy’s head. It was like a mini fedora, but without the feather.