Two
Was there anything as relaxing as knitting? Jane wondered, ensconced on one of the green-and-gold tapestry-print sofas in the living room of Hydrangea House. She yanked some more yarn out of the bag at her feet, then let her hands fly as she surveyed her friends, fellow members of the Defarge Club, sitting about her.
Next to Jane on the sofa sat Ginny Williams, her pixieish face scrunched up while she tried to untangle a network of different-colored yarns that traversed the back of the sweater she was knitting for Rob, her longtime boyfriend. Jane had lost count of the number of times she had tried to convince Ginny, a neophyte knitter, to attempt something simpler than this complicated sweater pattern she’d selected. More importantly, Jane had recently begun to try to convince Ginny that perhaps her relationship with Rob was never going to work out the way Ginny wanted it to.
Ginny wanted desperately to get married, to have children. Rob, though basically a decent man, was ethereal and free-spirited—not surprising in an artist (he designed silver jewelry)—and even after five years of living with Ginny, he refused to make the move from boyfriend to fiancé.
Jane saw Ginny frequently—more than she saw any of the other members of the Defarge Club—because Ginny worked as a waitress at Whipped Cream, the cozy café across the village green from Jane’s office. Jane went there every morning for her muffin and coffee, and often lately she’d been going there for lunch as well. Terribly fond of Ginny, Jane wanted her friend to find happiness and knew she wouldn’t find it with Rob. So, when the time seemed right, Jane planned to delicately broach to Ginny the idea of her and Rob separating—ceasing to live together. From there they could end their relationship, and Ginny would be psychologically available to other men, men who would appreciate her.
Jane had it all figured out, the perfect plan. Unfortunately, so far the perfect time had not presented itself for Jane to share this plan with Ginny.
“Oh, pooh!” Ginny exclaimed, almost as if reading Jane’s thoughts. Poor Ginny had the colored strands of yarn in more of a tangle than before.
“Ginny, darling,” Jane said gently, “why don’t you just cut them and weave them into the back?”
“Because,” Ginny replied, slamming the half-sweater into her lap, “that’s not how it’s supposed to be done. You told me yourself that I should carry over the yarns that aren’t in use, and then pick them again when I need them.”
Jane opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Ginny was clearly in no mood to be reasoned with.
But old Doris, seated on the matching sofa directly across from Jane and Ginny’s, did not sense Ginny’s mood—or if she did, she didn’t care about it. She had lowered her own knitting—a magnificent magenta shawl she was making for a woman she had befriended at the Senior Center, where she volunteered two days a week.
“Oh, Ginny, for pity’s sake!” she said, her wrinkled face growing even more wrinkled in an exasperated frown. “I’ve never seen such stubbornness. Give it up! You work at that sweater the way you work at Rob—and you should give him up, too!”
Jane, shocked, looked sharply from Doris to Ginny, who just gaped at the older woman. Tears appeared in Ginny’s eyes.
“Doris Conway.” Rhoda, in her chair at one end of the grouping, smiled a polite smile, clearly trying to keep things light, or bring them back to their former lightness. “You do speak your mind, don’t you?”
The ever-unflappable Doris turned her attention to Rhoda. “You, of all people, should agree with me. Wasting all those years with that—dentist!”
Rhoda, who had been keeping the group up-to-date on the throes of her divorce from the philandering David, abruptly lost her smile. “I’m going to try to keep my temper, Doris, because you always have a big mouth. But I’ll thank you not to decide for me that my years with David were wasted. I think that’s something for me to decide, thank you. I do, after all, have two beautiful children to show for those years.”
Doris shrugged, though whether it was in concession Jane couldn’t be sure. Jane noticed that quiet little Penny Powell, seated only a few feet from Rhoda, was knitting furiously, eyes downcast, her neck-length brown hair shielding much of her face like a curtain. Everyone knew that Penny let her husband Alan, a chauvinist of the classic kind, walk all over her. For example, the reason Penny came to these meetings less often than anyone else was that if Alan suddenly announced he was going out with his buddies, Penny meekly agreed to stay home and take care of one-year-old Rebecca. But anyone who knew Penny knew nothing would ever change—unless Alan changed it.
An uncomfortable silence had descended. At the head of the group, in her customary armchair, bird-faced Louise sat like a statue, only her eyes moving, as if judging the temperament of each club member in turn.
Jane realized that Louise, though uninvolved in the conversation, was more upset than any of them. Poor Louise, so repressed, hated conflict of any sort. And Hydrangea House was, after all, hers—well, hers and Ernie’s. It suddenly occurred to Jane that one day Louise, weary of conflict like this, might someday decide to stop hosting the club’s every-other-Tuesday meetings in this beautiful old inn. That would be a shame.
“Louise,” Jane said, breaking the silence.
“Yes!” Louise burst out, as if startled.
Jane laughed. “Sorry. I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . I’d like to have a little birthday party for Nick—he’s turning ten next Sunday. Our backyard is so narrow and steep, but I was thinking the inn’s backyard would be perfect. I’ll pay you, of course. Do you think I could have the party here? I’m thinking there will be about fifteen kids from Nick’s class, and maybe ten adults.” Jane looked around the group. “You’re all invited, of course.”
Louise was smiling, obviously relieved at the subject change. “Of course, Jane, that would be lovely. But I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay me. What day were you thinking? We have been very busy lately.” The inn often hosted weddings, corporate parties, and other such events.
“How about this Sunday?” Jane asked. “That’s his birthday.”
“Hmm,” Louise murmured, surprised. “Today’s Tuesday—not much notice.”
“I know. I’m ashamed to say I’ve been so busy with work I haven’t taken a minute to think this through till now.”
Louise thought for a moment. “That will work out fine. I’ll tell Ernie. We’ll set up one of the long tables for the kids and another for the adults. What kind of food were you thinking?”
“Nothing fancy. I’ll pick up some pizzas from Giorgio’s and a birthday cake from Calandra’s.” Calandra’s, in nearby Fairfield on Route 46, made elaborate and delicious cakes and pastries.
“Lovely,” Louise said. “We’ll work out the rest of the details—balloons and such.”
“Great. Thanks, Louise.” Jane surveyed the group. Her subject change seemed to have worked just as well on the others, who were all smiling to themselves, apparently at the thought of a children’s birthday party. For a few moments everyone knitted quietly, the silence broken only when someone leaned forward to retrieve her coffee from the coffee table, or to replace her cup in its saucer.
Jane worked a few more rows on the swimsuit cover-up she was making as a surprise for Florence. This summer Florence would be taking Nick to the Fairfield town pool, and Jane had thought it would be a nice gesture to make Florence this cover-up as a gift. Jane had found the pattern in Vogue Knitting and planned to make one for herself as well.
Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Louise peering about the room. When Jane looked up, Louise’s expression was troubled.
“Is something the matter, Louise?” Jane asked.
Louise shrugged. “It’s the weirdest thing. Do you remember the antique quilt I used to keep on the back of that sofa?” She indicated the one on which Jane and Ginny were sitting. Jane leaned forward, looked behind her, and realized the quilt was missing.
“Are you having it cleaned?” Jane ventured. “Repaired?” Jane knew the quilt was quite old and had needed minor repairs in the past.
“No,” Louise said, clearly baffled. “I’m not. It’s just . . . disappeared!”
“Disappeared?” Rhoda said.
“Louise,” Doris said impatiently, “quilts don’t just disappear. Ginny, look on the floor behind you and see if it fell.”
Louise threw Doris an irritated look. “I think I would have found it if it had fallen.” She shook her head. “It’s gone.”
“Did you ask Ernie about it?” Ginny asked.
“Yes. He has no more idea than I do.”
Rhoda, eyes wide, said, “Do you think one of your guests stole it?”
Louise looked sad at this thought. “It’s the only answer I can come up with. It is a valuable old piece. But to just take it. Who would do such a thing?”
“You’d be surprised,” Doris said. “My mother, whenever we stayed at a hotel, took everything that wasn’t bolted down. Ashtrays, towels, blankets . . . even took a picture off the wall once.” She laughed to herself. “Why, once, when she knew we’d be staying at a really nice old place, she brought an empty suitcase just for the booty!”
All the women stared at Doris in horror.
Doris surveyed the group. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do it, my mother did.” She turned to Louise. “I didn’t take your quilt.”
“Oh, Doris,” Louise said with an embarrassed laugh, “of course you didn’t.”
At that moment Penny spoke, and Jane realized it was the first time tonight. “I know who could find it,” Penny said in her near whisper, her eyes still fixed on her knitting. Everyone waited. Penny looked up smiling, clearly pleased with herself. “Jane! She’s the detective!”
She was referring, of course, to Jane’s having solved the Marlene mystery, and People magazine’s subsequent coverage of the story.
Jane said, trying to keep her tone light, “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about that anymore.” She immediately felt bad for having said it, because Penny, crestfallen, immediately looked down again at her knitting.
“Yes, ladies,” Louise said, sounding like a schoolmarm, “we promised Jane. No more talk of—all that.”
“Well, don’t look at me,” Doris muttered. “I didn’t bring it up.”
Now poor Penny looked positively ashamed. Her face red, her lower lip clenched between her teeth, she gave a rapid nod and retreated behind her hair curtain, knitting furiously.
Jane felt awful. “Penny, it’s okay, really.”
“Well!” Louise said. “I don’t imagine we’ll ever find out what happened to my quilt, and now I think perhaps I don’t want to know.” She looked at her watch. “Ooh, late.”
Doris was practically hurling needles and yarn into her bag. “Sometimes we’re here as late as midnight, Louise Zabriskie, and you know it as well as I do. You just don’t feel comfortable when there’s tension in the air, and there’s plenty in the air right now. Wouldn’t you say so, Penny?”
Penny gaped at Doris as if the older woman had just suggested murder. Then Penny turned back to her own knitting and began putting away her paraphernalia.
Jane looked at Louise, who sat perfectly composed, as if Doris had not even spoken. “Thank you for coming, ladies. We’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” Doris muttered in disgust, and got up. So did everyone else, heading out of the living room into the foyer.
Ernie, looking plumper than ever in chinos and a too-tight mint green polo shirt, appeared at the end of the hallway that led to the kitchen. He gave a big gracious smile. “Evening, ladies. See you soon.” Then he seemed to sense the tension Doris had cited. His smile vanished, and he darted a glance at Louise. Jane saw her give him a warning frown with pursed lips, telling him to be quiet.
Jane lagged behind. When everyone else had said good night and left, she approached Louise. “I’ll give you a call about Nick’s party. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure,” Louise said. Her face grew troubled. Jane could tell she wanted to say something, but Louise was watching Ernie retreat back down the hallway to the kitchen, and seemed to be waiting until he was out of earshot.
“Jane,” Louise finally said, in a low voice, “could I talk to you for a minute?”
Jane frowned, puzzled. “Of course, Louise. Anytime.”
“Come in here,” Louise said, and led the way into the dining room. In the far wall, on the far side of Louise’s magnificent Queen Anne dining room set, was an immense bow window hung with elaborate drapes and shears. “Over here,” she said, walking to the window and opening them. The moon was out that night—Jane recalled that last night it had been full—and the inn’s spacious backyard was bathed in eerie moonlight. White wrought-iron tables and chairs had been placed randomly on the grass. At the far end of the lawn stood the thick woods, massive oaks and maples, a high black wall. Just to the right of the window, Jane could make out the inn’s large patio under its green-canvas awning attached to the back of the building.
Jane waited. She looked at Louise, who stood gazing out into the semidarkness.
“Jane,” Louise said at last, “I saw the strangest thing last night. A young woman—a girl . . .”
“A girl?”
Louise gave a slight nod. “Walking in the woods. Right at the edge.” She pointed to the left, toward where Jane knew Hadley Pond to lie. “I was ready for bed and came in here looking for a book I couldn’t find anywhere. I thought maybe I’d left it on the sideboard. Well, I hadn’t, but as I turned to leave, something moving in the woods caught my eye. Something pale . . . I left the room dark and watched from this window.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Of course, I couldn’t see her very well, but I don’t think it was anyone we know.”
“Could you make out anything about her? Features? Hair? What she was wearing?”
“No.” Louise looked at Jane searchingly. “Only that she looked pale, as if she had on a light-colored dress. I’m certain she was no hiker or camper, though I couldn’t say why. Something about the way she was walking . . . What I want to know is, why would she—why would anyone—be walking in the woods at night? It must have been almost midnight.”
“I have no idea. Did you go outside to see who it was?”
“No, not right away. I just watched her. She was walking very slowly, and she kept to just inside the woods; she never came out onto the lawn. It was almost as if she was afraid to come out—I can’t explain it. After a few minutes I decided I’d better go out and see who she was, so I hurried through to the kitchen and out the back door. I could still see her. I ran across the lawn and called out to her. She stopped short, as if she was afraid, and then ran deeper into the woods.” “Jane, you’re still here.”
Both women jumped.
Ernie stood in the doorway. There was no telling how long he’d been there. He was smiling his big easygoing smile.
For some reason she wouldn’t have been able to explain, Jane felt uneasy. “Yes,” she said, affecting lightheartedness, also without knowing why. “I’d better get going.” She led the way out of the dining room, and they joined Ernie in the foyer. “Thank you both for a lovely evening.”
“Oh, Jane,” Louise said, “you know perfectly well there was nothing lovely about it. All we did was fight.”
“Isn’t that what we always do?” Jane laughed.
Louise just stood awkwardly. Her gaze darted from Jane to Ernie, then fixed on the foyer’s tile floor.
“My bed is positively calling out to me,” Ernie said. He gave Jane a peck on the cheek. “Night, love, thanks for coming. See you in a couple of weeks.” They watched him climb the stairs and disappear down the upstairs hall. Jane noticed that Louise’s gaze lingered on Ernie an odd moment longer than seemed natural, as if Louise were lost in some thought about him.
At that moment the front door opened and a man entered. Jane was immediately struck by how big he was—not overweight, but muscular. Easily six and a half feet tall, he had a chest like a barrel and thick arms and legs. He was also, Jane noticed, exceptionally attractive, with close-clipped black hair and a chiseled face set with bright blue eyes. He wore black-cotton slacks and, like Ernie, a polo shirt, except that this man’s was black and he sure filled it out better.
Seeing Jane and Louise, he grinned amiably. “Good evening,” he said, nodded once rather shyly, and headed up the stairs.
Jane waited until he was out of earshot, then turned avid eyes on Louise. “Who was that?”
Louise had to laugh. “That’s Mr. Vernell. Mike Vernell. Now he is a hiker. That’s why he’s here. He’s been here all week, on vacation, hiking in our woods.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s been hiking tonight.”
“No,” Louise agreed, “I think he has friends in the area who join him for dinner. He’s a very nice man.”
“Nice isn’t the word for it,” said Jane, who hadn’t responded to a man this way in—well, years. “Ooh là là Sasson! He looks like Clint Walker. Do you remember him? The Night of the Grizzly? He can lie on my bearskin rug any day.” She growled.
“Jane! Such talk. Clint Walker, The Night of the Grizzly . . . Boy, are you dating yourself.”
“At least someone is!”
“Funny. You know perfectly well that there are several nice men right here in Shady Hills who would jump at the chance to take you out.”
“Like Mark Stapleton?”
Louise said nothing. She was the one who had introduced Jane to Mark. Mark was the principal at Shady Hills High School, a man who lived with his mother (to take care of her, he’d told Jane, though when Jane had met the woman, she’d been in perfect, bouncy health). Mark had never married. A month ago he had taken Jane to dinner and a show in New York City. Jane had found him . . . prissy.
“Not for me,” she said, and gave Louise a wicked grin. “I’d rather have old Clint up there.”
Louise blushed.
Jane burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, Louise, I’ve shocked you terribly, haven’t I? I’d better go before I do something I’ll regret in the morning.” She walked to the door. “But I’m serious. If Mr. Vernell turns out to be single, he can hike on over to my house anytime he wants! Oh—I’ll call you to work out the party details. Thanks again.”
Before Louise could respond, Jane closed the door, crossed the wide porch filled with white wicker furniture and hung with baskets of begonias and petunias, and went down the steps to her car, parked on the wide circle of gravel in front of the inn.
It was a lovely night, the air fragrant with pine and lilac and honeysuckle. She drove down the long drive and onto Plunkett Lane, which wound through the woods to the village.
She thought about Mr. Vernell and felt an old stirring deep within her. Perhaps silly old Bertha was right. Perhaps love was, indeed, the answer.
And a deep sadness washed over her, for thoughts of love brought thoughts of Kenneth. Of course love was the answer. She’d had the answer, but one day it had simply disappeared.
What she needed to do, she realized, was to learn again how to ask the question.