by Leslie Kelly
Jen lifted the box onto the old woman’s lap, watching the way her tiny, delicately boned hands caressed it. She traced the letters across the top with the tip of a finger, then nibbled her bottom lip as she reached for the latch.
“Everything’s there,” Jen said, somehow knowing Ivy was afraid. “Exactly as you left it.”
Ivy slowly shook her head. “You shouldn’t have brought it. It’s not safe here. Someone wants to know, someone’s trying to figure out the secret.”
Stunned, Jen merely stared at her. She couldn’t believe Ivy was still clinging to that ridiculous fear even though she held her treasure right in her hands. Especially now that Jen knew exactly what the “secret” in the box really was. The songs.
“Not safe, must hide it away.” Her aunt still sounded confused; she was obviously not having a lucid day. Though days like this had once been few and far between, Jen knew they were now coming more frequently as Ivy retreated into her past, eschewing real life for her happy fantasy one.
“It’s all right,” Jen insisted. “Nobody else is trying to find the secret.” Lie, lie; Mike had been trying to find out. But she’d put a stop to that, at least she hoped she had. “But Aunt Ivy, I think it’s time you told it to me.”
The woman blinked twice, staring at her, then looking away. Reaching for a lamp on the table, she flipped on the light. She was frowning, almost glaring, which was when Jen realized the present-day Ivy was definitely back in the house.
“What secret? Why would I tell you anything when you want to force me out of my home?” She began rocking fast, the creak of the chair the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
Jen rose from the floor. This Ivy she knew and could deal with. Taking a seat on a lumpy settee, she leaned forward, dropping her elbows onto her knees. “I found the hidden pocket.”
Ivy’s gasp was louder even than the squeak of the chair.
“I saw the music.”
“Oh, Lord,” Ivy whispered, growing still. “Eddie’s songs.”
One question answered.
“I never could read music, but he’d sometimes play them for me when we’d meet in his tiny apartment,” she said, probably revealing more than she’d intended to since she didn’t know Jen was aware of Ivy’s affair. “Even today I close my eyes and still hear them on the wind. Isn’t that odd?”
No. Not odd. They weren’t on the wind; they were on the airwaves. Proof for poor Ivy that Eddie had survived and was out there somewhere, alive and well, selling the songs he’d once sung only to her.
What a stab in her heart it must have been every time one of them came on the radio. And no wonder she’d been so territorial about them, right up until the last time Jen was here. Nobody in the world was supposed to know that they’d been gifts from the man she’d loved—written to, for and about her.
Jen swallowed away a lump in her throat, needing to know the rest. The truth about the fire. And Ivy’s part in it. “I know just about everything, and I’m going to help you. But you have to trust me. You have to tell me the truth. All of it.”
The old woman waved an impatient hand. “You know nothing.”
“I know you were having an affair with Eddie James.”
A dreamy smile softened Ivy’s sharp face. She stroked the top of the knitting box as if it had taken on the physical personification of the man she’d loved. “My Eddie. He had a beautiful, kind soul. A smile that rivaled the sun. And he loved me to distraction.” Lost in her own reminiscence, she looked up at the ceiling, adding, “He was much younger than I, you know. Still, he had eyes for nobody else. None of those young girls could ever turn his head or his heart.”
“Unlike Leo,” Jen murmured.
The old lady’s lips pursed. “Unlike Leo. His musical casting couch was legendary, before we were married, and after.”
“He found out about the affair.”
She nodded. “He’d hired someone to follow me and take pictures. Oh, wasn’t he enraged.”
Everything was falling into place exactly as Jen had suspected it would. They were finally reaching the night—that final, fiery night. “He confronted Eddie?”
Ivy nodded absently, still stroking the box. “Called him over to the house while I was out. Poor, sweet Eddie, I can’t imagine how he reacted. I had warned him about Leo…what he was capable of…but in the end, I wasn’t there to protect him.”
“But you protected him later.”
Ivy finally stopped stroking and turned her head to meet Jen’s eyes.
“With the fire.”
The old woman remained silent. Her gaze was watchful, secretive, revealing nothing.
“I know you set the fire, Aunt Ivy.” Jen held her breath, almost praying she was wrong, that her aunt was innocent.
The woman hesitated for a long moment, then frowned in visible petulance. “Well, yes, I did that,” she admitted, as if she’d merely forgotten to take out her trash.
Jen released her breath in a harsh whoosh. It was true. Everything she’d thought for years was true. Her aunt had burned down her own house with her husband lying in a pool of blood inside it. Only one question remained. Had she known he was alive when she’d struck the match? “You acted so quickly,” Jen said. “You got home…”
“Leo called me home,” Ivy clarified. “He called the restaurant and taunted me right there on the phone.”
Taunted her about having called her lover over, obviously. “But by the time you got there, it was finished. Eddie had showed up, the two men had fought.”
Ivy said nothing.
Lowering her voice to almost a whisper, she added, “Your husband was lying in a pool of blood, your lover was gone and you knew Eddie would be blamed.”
Utter silence. As if this story had nothing whatsoever to do with the old woman watching her with expressionless eyes and a closed mouth.
“Knowing Leo was dead,” Jen added, hearing a tiny tremor in her voice, “you tried to save Eddie by torching everything. Then you sent him away for his own protection.”
Ivy’s brow pulled down into a frown, her lips tightening into a tiny circle. She was finally showing some kind of reaction. But rather than agreeing with Jen’s version of the story or admitting she’d intentionally finished what Eddie had started, she slowly shook her head. “You poor child, you truly have been dwelling on this, haven’t you?”
No more than Ivy had, obviously.
A hoarse laugh emerged from the old woman’s throat. “And yet you still have it all so entirely wrong.”
Jen froze, hearing the note of clarity in her aunt’s voice. There was no confusion, no hesitation, just pure, solid memory.
“Leo didn’t call me to say Eddie was on his way over, you silly thing. Eddie was already there.”
“What?”
“My husband called to tell me to come home and find what he’d left for me on the floor.”
Jen tilted her head and stared at Aunt Ivy in bemusement, not yet grasping what she meant.
“When I got home,” her aunt said, her voice finally beginning to shake in weakness and in sorrow, “I found him lying there. His head bashed in…so much blood, a sea of it.”
“Leo?”
“No, you fool!” Ivy snapped, any sign of sadness or weakness disappearing into frustration. “Don’t you see? Eddie didn’t kill Leo. Leo killed Eddie.”
Jen collapsed back in the settee, utterly stunned. But that didn’t come near the shock she felt when Ivy continued in a prim, matter-of-fact voice.
“And later that night, I killed Leo.”
MIKE HADN’T BEEN EXPECTING JEN to be waiting at the condo when he arrived back there late Saturday morning. Still, walking in and being greeted only by the dog—and otherwise silence—had nearly crushed him.
“She made her choice,” he’d told himself, wondering if it was for the best. They had already admitted they drove each other crazy. Now, with her determination to stand beside her aunt who might someday kill somebody, he should just cut his l
osses.
But he’d known from the minute he’d left that morning that he couldn’t. He was in love with her. For better and, especially on days like today, for worse. So, gathering up the dog and shoving some of his things into a duffel bag, he took off after her. He had to talk to her—not just about them, but about what he’d discovered today at his old precinct.
“Could have used the phone,” he reminded himself as he drove toward Pennsylvania, probably a couple of hours behind Jennifer since he’d bet she’d left the penthouse two minutes after he had.
Some messages, though, couldn’t be delivered by phone. Messages like I love you. I want you.
And They caught the guy who tried to kill us.
That, in his opinion, was the least critical of the three. But she still deserved to know that he, not she, had been last week’s target.
The carjacker who’d been brought in the previous night had actually confessed to stealing the black van with the tinted windows. It had been a special-order job, and he’d delivered it to one of Ricky Stahl’s known associates. They’d found what was left of the van right where the perp had said it would be, in a Jersey chop shop. And Stahl’s goons’ fingerprints had been all over it.
It was doubtful the guy would willingly turn on his boss, who’d obviously sent him on the job, but the D.A. was going to try to work a deal. Stahl would now face attempted murder charges. And Jennifer could breathe a little easier that the pig who’d broken into her apartment had not also tried to kill her.
He only hoped their relationship problems could be solved as easily as the mystery of who’d tried to run them down.
He also hoped her wacky aunt didn’t get violent when Jen asked her if she’d burned down her own house in 1966. Jen was a strong woman, and Ivy an old frail one. But, despite all her bluster and threats, he didn’t think Jen would lay a hand on her elderly aunt, not even in her own defense.
That worried him more than anything. And so, while he was still a few hours outside of Trouble, he’d called his grandfather. Mortimer had been excited to hear Mike was coming for another visit so soon. And half out of his mind with delight when he’d learned he was chasing after Jen.
Mike hadn’t wanted to reveal too much, especially not his suspicions about a woman his grandfather had once been…intimate with. But knowing Ivy and her sister were always on their best behavior around Mortimer, he figured his grandfather could be of help. So he’d asked him to swing by and check on things, to make sure Jen didn’t get in over her head.
That had seemed like a really good idea when he’d first thought of it, but as Mike got closer and closer to town, he began to worry as much about his grandfather as he was worrying about Jen. If Ivy went off the deep end, his grandfather could be in danger.
“Stupid ass,” he muttered, shaking his head as he realized he still had a half-hour drive ahead of him. Mutt lifted his head off the back seat and groaned a little. “Not you. The stupidity was all mine.” In so many ways lately.
Unable to stand it, he dialed Mortimer’s house again, but got no answer. Though he wasn’t sure his grandfather knew how to use it, Mike knew he had a cell phone. Morgan had bought him one for Christmas last year. Punching in the preprogrammed number, Mike almost held his breath until the old man answered.
“Is this thing on?” the querulous voice said. “Is someone there? Blasted buttons are too small to make out. Hello?”
Relieved, Mike leaned back in the driver’s seat. “It’s me, Grandpa. Just checking in.”
“Michael! Yes, yes, good. No news yet, I’m afraid.”
That surprised him. He’d have figured his grandfather would have gone over to check on Jen five minutes after Mike’s previous call.
“I haven’t been able to find Roderick to ask him to take me today,” Mortimer admitted. “He’s disappeared off the face of the earth.” With a lascivious laugh, he added, “I believe he had a date with Miss Baker this afternoon. Perhaps it turned into a very long one.”
Mike hoped Roddy’s love life was progressing a little better than his own. “It’s all right, Grandpa,” Mike said, glad the old man hadn’t yet left. “Stay home, I’m not far anyway.”
“Nonsense, boy, I’m nearly there.”
“What?”
“No need for Rod to get back with the car. It’s just a good stretch of the legs to Miss Ivy’s house.”
He’d walked the mile or so to town. Mike sighed deeply, kicking himself more than ever for involving his grandfather in this. “Look, why don’t you go visit your friends in the tavern. You don’t have to go to see Jen, I’ll be there soon.”
“Pish. Dying to see her…Hmm, I wonder who that might be.”
Mike waited, wondering which of his Trouble-ing friends or neighbors his grandfather had spied.
“That looks like some skulking. Bad business afoot,” the old man mumbled.
Immediately pushing the gas pedal harder as his body tensed, Mike asked, “What’s going on?”
“There’s a stranger lurking around outside the Feeney sisters’ houses. He’s definitely trying not to be seen, but my eyes haven’t failed me as much as other parts of m’body have.”
Shit. Someone had followed Jen to Trouble. “Grandpa, get away, I’ll be there soon.” Then he thought about it. “Better yet, call the police, they’ll be quicker. I’m afraid someone might be after Jen.”
“The letter writer?” Mortimer asked, his voice losing all trace of age, sounding strong and determined. “He won’t lay a hand on her, by God.” He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Should have brought my sword.”
Mike groaned. “Grandpa, I mean it. Don’t do anything yourself. Call the police and wait for me.”
“He’s found a way in through a basement window,” Mortimer said in a loud whisper, as if fearing the thug would overhear. Which meant Mortimer had moved closer, rather than farther away.
“Damn it.”
“He’s…oh, dear…”
And the phone went dead.
IVY HADN’T REALIZED what a great relief it would be to talk about things, to bring her memories out of the darkest corners of her mind and whisper them back into existence. So often she retreated into herself, reliving all the moments in silence, in solitude, but she hadn’t spoken aloud of these things in years. Decades. And she’d never whispered a hint of them to anyone except Ida Mae, who, since she had secrets of her own to guard, would never breathe a word to anyone.
“I don’t understand,” Jennifer said. Poor child looked shocked and confused.
Ivy supposed that wasn’t surprising. The girl wasn’t the only one to have gotten the story all wrong—the police had, too. The media. Friends and family. Everyone had believed exactly what Ivy had wanted them to believe.
“By then I hated Leo, you know,” she continued, slowly beginning to rock again in her chair. “Our marriage had been lovely at first, then he started to cheat and lie and steal.” She lifted a hand to her cheek. “The first time he struck me, he drove every last remnant of love I’d ever felt for him right out of my heart.”
Jennifer remained silent, watching with wide eyes.
“Of course, Eddie filled it right back up. I loved that man more than my own life. And coming home that night to find him dead on the floor just about killed me.”
“Dead on the floor…”
Ivy ignored her, going on, the memories spilling out of her almost on top of one another now. “I fell down beside him, swimming in the ocean of his blood, begging and pleading for him not to be gone, but it was too late. No one could survive that much blood loss and I could see bits of bone sticking into my poor, sweet love’s brain.”
“Oh, my God,” the girl whispered.
“Then the phone rang. Leo called to make sure I was home and to ask what I thought of his present.” It still sickened her to think of his gloating voice. “He told me exactly where he was and how he planned to buy himself an alibi from some wannabe musicians who’d do anything for a break
. He asked me if I’d touched the statue, if I’d kissed Eddie’s corpse…if I’d left enough fingerprints so the police would have a strong case against me.”
“He was setting you up to take the fall.”
Ivy nodded. “The fool. He didn’t know me at all, did he? As if I was weak. As if I, a Feeney woman, would ever panic.” The thought infuriated her to this day.
“You acted quickly,” her niece prodded.
“It wasn’t thirty seconds after I hung up the phone that I went into action. I grabbed my knitting box…the only thing I cared about in that cold, lifeless house. All my other treasures—my photographs, everything else—I’d already brought to Mama for safekeeping on my last trip.”
Thank goodness for that, otherwise she’d have wasted precious time tracking them down, not willing to let them burn along with the useless art and jewels Leo had showered upon her.
“I found a clean dress that resembled the bloody one I had on. Then I went to the kitchen and got the kerosene.” She’d moved quickly, in a furious, enraged daze, she remembered that much. “When I was ready, I kissed Eddie’s sweet, still-warm hand, then I put some of Leo’s flashy jewelry on him. Even then I knew, you see, what I intended to do.”
She’d planned to kill Leo from the very second she saw Eddie’s lifeless form.
“You wanted everyone to think Leo was the one who’d died.”
“Of course. Eddie was young and unknown, he could disappear into history, and I’d protect his memory all my days. No one would miss one more musician from the Village.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “Leo was a different story. He’d definitely be missed. So I poured kerosene all over the room and on my sweet man….”
Ivy’s voice finally broke, and she felt weak for the first time since she’d started speaking. Hot, angry tears blurred her vision. But she forced them away, as she’d been forcing them away for forty years. “I lit the match, and hurried out the back door. The next day, I identified the jewelry on the body as Leo’s and others concurred. That was all the proof they needed. No one even noticed the fact that the body was taller than the much-reviled Leo Cantone, because, I think, no one cared that he was dead. He was that despised.” With a shrug, she added, “It was, my dear, remarkably easy.”