“You promised you’d go this weekend. You were going to give Maggie some tips for her self-portrait.”
“Gee, how could I forget that?” David said sarcastically. “Another precious self-portrait full of well-hidden meaning. Just what the art world needs.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Jane muttered.
She pulled on a bright pink baseball cap with the white WPW lettering on the front and wondered if she was being too harsh. Was her undercurrent of jealous thoughts turning her into a harridan?
She walked back across the room and gave David a quick kiss on the cheek. His grip tightened on her hand as she moved away.
“Let’s have another go,” he said. “You’ll be less grumpy.”
She knew he was at least half kidding, but it irritated her all over again.
“Maggie’s picking me up in two hours, David,” she snapped. “Try to stay focused.”
David let go of her.
“You’re wasting your time with her,” he said. “She’s a one-book wonder who’ll write any sort of trash to make a buck.”
“One man’s trash is another woman’s treasure.”
“You think all women want to castrate their men? Give me a break. She’s probably a lesbian.”
He fluffed the pillow beneath his head and settled in, closing his eyes.
“I think that if you were a woman you might see it in a different way.”
“Horse shit,” he said and rolled over to face away from her.
When she got to the bathroom, his clothes were in a pile on the floor where he had dropped them the night before. Even as she bent over to pick them up, she told herself that she should leave them where they were—not only because she felt as if she was acting like his mother or some servant, but because she knew that if she did gather them into her arms, she would be transformed once more into that suspicious, clinging female whom she so despised. She would raise his crumpled shirt to her face and detect the perfume again imbued in the cloth so strongly that it could only mean one thing.
And there it was: Chloe, a scent Jane never wore.
What was she waiting for? A signed and notarized confession?
And yet, her thought processes could be skewed even now by these stabbing pangs of jealousy—like mother, like daughter. Maybe she should ignore this, as she always had.
Then her thoughts went to the package that Diana had left for her the day before. At the same time that it had frightened her, the package had also given Jane a curious sense of well-being and anticipation, as if Diana had chosen her for a special message. Maybe this woman had known that changes were needed in Jane’s life; it wasn’t exactly a secret that she and David were going through a rough patch. Why else would she have taken the trouble to break into her office and leave her such a package?
Jane threw the clothes into a chair in the living room and left the apartment. As she did, she slammed the door hard.
Inside David stirred, shook his head resignedly, and went back to his dreams.
Chapter Eight
Two men were standing across the street when Maggie double-parked her blue Volvo outside of Jane’s building later that Saturday morning. The older of the two was in his early fifties, with pale gray eyes and light brown hair cut short in a manner that suggested a military background. He had a thin, angular body, over which he wore a corduroy sports coat that didn’t quite fit, a blue and white shirt without a tie, dark blue pants and somewhat battered black shoes. With him was a man in his early thirties who stood a good six inches taller than his older counterpart, with a well-muscled athletic body that was starting to thicken from too many days spent sitting in a car. He had straight blond hair cut to right above his ears. His eyes were very large and round and of a hazel hue that changed expression like a chameleon’s skin changes color. He also wore a sports jacket—a checked pattern in various shades of brown.
“They’re cops,” Jane said to herself as she emerged from the front door with an overnight bag in one hand. The two men crossed the street toward her.
Jane stopped as they approached.
The older man nodded in greeting.
“Ms. Larson?” he asked. “Sorry to disturb you. We haven’t met, but I recognized you from a picture on your web site. I’m Detective Andrew Smalley from the New York City police department. And this is Detective Charlie Glaser.”
“The World Wide Web strikes again,” Jane said, shaking their hands. Smalley’s was all tendon and bone; Glaser’s was like a big warm catcher’s mitt. “You probably know my age too.”
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Glaser said, grinning. He might have qualified as handsome except that his mouth was a little too undersized for the rest of him, with lips perfectly formed like a doll’s. “You’ll be thirty-two in November, according to the Office of Court Administration. No disciplinary violations. And you went to Columbia Law School. A Stone Scholar. Harlan Fiske Stone, of course. Not the other variety.”
Glaser’s face bore a pleasant expression, but she felt only menace from him.
“What else can I tell you quickly?” she asked. “I’m kind of in a hurry this morning.”
“We actually didn’t come by to talk today,” Smalley said. “We just happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, seeing the proprietor of the Iphigenia Gallery.”
“You get up early,” Jane said.
Glaser shrugged.
“You know what they say about that early bird. She was setting up for some art show—solo, Sappho ...”
“WPW,” Jane said interrupting him.
“That’s it! We had a real nice talk. Turns out I had a friend who went to her college. Small world, huh?”
“I hear that a lot,” Jane said. She turned to Smalley. “Anything else?”
“If you don’t mind. We hoped to see what sort of planning would be involved to break into your office and drop off a package like the one you got yesterday.”
“Not much. There’s my office. The front door opens right onto the street. You can see inside through the window. Foot traffic is light on weekday afternoons. I suppose Diana didn’t want to leave it outside in case someone else picked it up. The thief would have gotten quite a surprise.”
A single loud bark of laughter erupted from Detective Glaser.
“That’s a funny thought,” he said, pointing an index finger at Jane.
The tight smile on Smalley’s face had no effect on the remainder of his features.
“What time did it happen?” Smalley asked.
“I don’t know. I was away all morning. My landlady saw the door ajar around two-thirty.”
“Whoever left it must have known your schedule, huh?” Glaser asked.
“It’s not a mystery,” Jane said. “I have one of those cardboard clocks on my door that shows when I’ll be returning. I don’t have a secretary. I answer my own phone and do my own typing.”
Smalley looked down at his shoes and then glanced up again. He’d already seen the clock. Glaser took a small book out of his jacket pocket and made a note.
“I’m sorry to cut this short,’ Jane continued, “but I’m on my way out of town and my ride is waiting.”
Maggie had stayed in her car, listening to the repartee. She got out now and waved to them. She was wearing khaki shorts and a white blouse with an eyelet design at the sleeves and collar. The shorts accented her long legs. The outfit was similar to one she had worn in the photograph on the back cover of Getting There. Her hair had been a little different then, cut short with a fringe of bangs like a pixie, and she had addressed the camera boldly with sexuality oozing from her every pore. Many women had copied the outfit but not that pose.
“I thought maybe that was Maggie Edwards,” Detective Glaser said with a broad smile. “Hey, Ms. Edwards! Big fan!” He pointed at his chest with his thumb. “I googled you last night, too. Hey, good luck with your new book, huh?”
“Thank you,” Maggie said. Up close, anyone could see that her cheeks had reddened. H
er hand shook slightly as she used her keys to open the trunk for Jane.
“I’m thinking this Diana must be a fan of yours, too, writing that little poem of yours on the wall and everything. I mean—”
“What are you talking about?” Jane asked, somewhat angrily now.
Glaser raised his eyebrows into matching innocent arcs.
“Allow me,” Maggie said.
“Dance beneath the moon's pale light,
Praise her, praise Diana.
This is the work of woman's hand,
Another stag has fallen.”
“That’s it!” Glaser said. He glanced at his partner.
“Don’t get too excited, Detective,” Jane said. “The poem was included in the e-mail that Diana sent to Harry Lesdock at The Portal yesterday. Surely they gave you a copy.”
“They didn’t,” Smalley said. “Maybe you would send us one.”
“Certainly. But we really are anxious to get going now. It is a day off for me.”
“Of course,” Smalley said. “Although we’d like to speak to both of you at some point.”
Jane took out a card and handed it to Smalley.
“Here’s my number. Give me a call on Monday, when I can check my calendar.”
Smalley tucked the card into his pocket and turned to Maggie.
“May I have your number, Ms. Edwards?” he asked.
“You can make both appointments through me,” Jane said. “I’m her lawyer. I imagine Detective Glaser must have learned that through all his research.”
Glaser’s chameleon eyes changed from friendly to neutral. For once, he said nothing.
“Surely I don’t need my lawyer present, do I Detective Smalley?” Maggie asked. She tried to make it a joke, but it came out flat. Again, her skin flushed.
Before he could reply, Jane stepped toward the car, slipping between Smalley and Maggie as she lowered her bag into the trunk.
“Martha had a favorite saying, Maggie,” Jane said. “If the cops want to talk to you, then you need a lawyer. That’s one of her rules I have always followed.”
“What about you, then?” Glaser asked. “Who’s your lawyer?”
She shut the trunk and turned around to face the two men. Glaser had a smug look on his face. His mouth had contracted into a pink circle.
“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, detective,” Jane replied calmly. “That was another of her favorite sayings.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Smalley’s face.
“—Adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines,” he added, finishing the quotation. “We’ll talk next week, ladies.”
He gave a curt half-bow. Somehow, it did not seem pretentious coming from him.
“Have a pleasant weekend, gentlemen,” Jane said.
* * * *
She and Maggie got into the car and drove away. When they cleared the light at the corner and started up Third Avenue, Maggie turned to Jane.
“Are you angry with me?”
“No, but you might have mentioned that you wrote that poem. Just so you know, lawyers don’t like surprises.”
“It seemed insignificant compared to the fact that this Diana woman seems to be imitating my book. I’m sorry.” She paused. “I’m just not good at this sort of thing. You know, I expected the police would want to talk to me. But it’s still a shock when they actually show up, isn’t it?”
“That’s why Martha had her rule,” Jane said.
“It just seems like whatever you say, they’re going to take it the wrong way. Words are so unclear sometimes.”
“We’ll go over the questions that they’re likely to ask. You’ll feel better next time. I promise.”
“I hope we don’t have to do that today or tomorrow. I personally would like to forget about my book and this Diana character for a little while.”
“Works for me,” said Jane. “And while we’re avoiding topics, I promise to leave David out of all conversations for the next two days as well, except to say that he is a fink and we will somehow carry on without him.”
Maggie glanced over at Jane.
“Somehow we will,” she repeated. “And no more surprises.” She held out her palm and Jane slapped it.
“No more surprises.”
Chapter Nine
When Maggie had first invited Jane and David to her house, she’d planned to get off the Taconic Parkway as soon as they passed out of Westchester and take a more scenic route along one of the old north/south roads, passing through a string of sleepy towns with old houses turned into antique stores and restaurants with bountiful menus. But after their brief interview with the detectives, Maggie wanted nothing but to leave the city and Diana behind, so she kept on the parkway for as long as possible and in a little under two hours, after a succession of increasingly smaller, rougher, and poorly-marked roads, they turned into the long dirt driveway of her house.
At almost the precise moment that Maggie stopped the car at her mailbox, Jane’s phone chimed, indicating that a text message had arrived.
“I was going to ask you to turn your phone off,” Maggie said wryly.
“I wish I could.” Jane pulled out her phone and frowned. “It’s from Sheila Majors.”
“And what does the dear Professor have to say?”
“Somewhat expected news. She and one or two other board members were also called by our close personal friends, Smalley and Glaser. She’s set up a telephonic meeting of the board for 11:00 a.m. She wants me to be on, too.”
Maggie let out a sigh and started up the driveway again.
“Okay. We should be done by twelve, tops. And then I hope you’ll do what I always do—turn off the phone and put it away until it’s time to return to New York. One of these days I hope to bury the damned thing in the backyard, in a common grave with my computer, and begin to really kiss the outside world good-bye.”
“Well, I’m not quite there yet,” Jane said. “But I’ll leave it upstairs in my room for the rest of the afternoon. Beyond five hours, I tend to suffer serious withdrawal symptoms. Okay?”
Maggie nodded her head, glancing over at Jane and smiling.
“Okay. For now, anyway.”
* * * *
Maggie had time to make a pot of coffee and change into her work clothes before she and Jane sat on the front porch and made the call to the conference operator. Sheila and Ari had already dialed in by that point. Ellen Briars was next; then Jenna Worley, the board’s youngest member, a very successful real estate broker who had been voted onto the board at Martha’s suggestion just over a year ago. No one was particularly surprised that Charmaine Devon and Susan Hempten were last, since there was yet to be a board meeting which they had attended on time.
“I was on the phone with that Detective Glaser,” Susan said, a bit defensively, as her voice came on the line. “I couldn’t very well hang up on him, could I?”
“Why not?” asked Ari.
“Yeah,” Jenna added. “I don’t hang up on my mother or my father, but anyone else is fair game.”
“Flippant talk,” Sheila said, cutting in with her deep calm voice. She was the oldest of the board members and, for that reason, most surmised she had been picked by Martha to replace her as Chairwoman. She had tenure at Columbia but had been inhibited in recent years by an increasingly severe case of arthritis. The painkillers she took had slowed her speech and further deepened a voice that had once reached the back of any lecture hall at the University. “But we will use your comments to segue into our topic for the day, which is ‘How should we react? What should we do?’ The floor is open, but I would especially like to hear from Jane.”
Maggie made a fist with a thumbs-up, and gave Jane a soft bump on the knee.
“I think there are two parts to the question,” Jane replied. “First, how should WPW respond and second, how should the board members respond as individuals. On that first question, I think the board would be smart to appoint one person to talk to Detectives Sm
alley and Glaser about WPW.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Sheila said. “Any volunteers for the contact person?”
“I volunteer Ari,” Ellen said.
“And I volunteer Ellen,” Ari shot back, to general laughter among the group.
“Let’s try to keep a serious focus here, shall we?” Sheila said evenly. Only with great difficulty was it possible to detect the slight slurring of certain words caused by her medication.
“Actually, I am serious,” Ellen continued. “Ari obviously has the public relations skills to deal with the police, not to mention the basic smarts. She handled the police yesterday with no problems whatsoever.”
“Smalley came by yesterday?” Jane asked.
“No, it was just a couple of uniformed cops,” said Ari. “And then a forensic team came by to pick up the wrapping and so forth. They dusted Diana’s montage for prints and took some pictures of it, but let us keep it for the show.”
“After you persuaded them,” Ellen said.
“They put me in touch with Detective Smalley. He seems reasonably intelligent. I can’t speak for Glaser.”
“Glaser is a smug asshole,” Ellen said.
“And thinks he’s God’s gift to women,” Susan added.
Jane looked at Maggie, who nodded in silent agreement.
“I certainly don’t mind talking to them,” Ari said.
“All in favor say ‘aye’,” Sheila said then, to a unanimous response. “Well, since that was the point of the meeting, I guess we can all get back to our regularly scheduled Saturdays.”
“But Sheila, don’t forget,” Jenna said. “Jane said that was just the first part. She still has to talk about us as individuals.”
“I didn’t forget, Jenna,” Sheila said testily.
There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Sheila was very sensitive about her memory.
“Jane is counsel to the board for free,” Sheila continued, “as her mother was before her. But I don’t think she should have to be everyone’s lawyer on the same generous terms.”
Praise Her, Praise Diana Page 6