Seven
Jane watched two of the lights on her phone flash, heard Daniel answer one, put the call on hold, and take the other. Her intercom beeped.
“Bill Haddad on one,” came Daniel’s mellow voice, “and Bertha Stumpf on two.”
Though Jane had liked Bill’s proposal quite a bit, she just couldn’t deal with Bill right now. Extremely insecure despite his considerable talent, he needed a lot of stroking—something Jane was in no mood to do. “I’ll call Bill back,” she told Daniel. “What does Bertha want?”
“She says it’s about the RAT convention.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Ask her what about it, and tell her we’re sending the photos and bios, if that’s what she’s calling about.”
“Will do,” Daniel replied cheerfully, and the intercom light went out.
She stared at the pile of work on her desk, but it soon blurred, to be replaced by a collage of haunting images.
A pretty young woman walking along a country road, excited about a “wonderful surprise.”
A young woman waiting in a cave for a kind stranger to return with food and drink.
A young woman walking at the edge of the deep woods behind Hydrangea House, peering out at the trees . . . an outsider looking in....
A young woman hanging by her neck from a tree, her face garishly made up. CLOWN GIRL . . .
Jane shook herself. It was all too awful to contemplate. She thought about poor Doris, so worried about Arthur, whom she had never mentioned in all the years Jane had known her, in all the meetings of the Defarge Club they had attended together. Surely she couldn’t be ashamed of or embarrassed by Arthur because he was retarded. No, Doris was too enlightened to feel that way. Then why had she never mentioned him? Was it perhaps because he wasn’t at all the kind, easygoing sort Doris had just painted a picture of? Did he have some history of violence that made Doris now think he could have hurt that poor girl? As Nick had reminded Jane, it was she herself who had said never to trust the way things appear—a sad way to have to live, but especially necessary nowadays.
There was a soft knock, and Daniel came in with the mail. He walked to Jane’s desk, searched for a clear spot, and placed the stack at the extreme right edge. Then he scrutinized Jane, his eyes narrowed.
She looked up and met his gaze. “What?”
“Anything you’d like to talk about?”
Jane smiled. Now that Kenneth was gone, Daniel knew her better than anyone. Or was she simply that transparent? Doris’s visit alone would have made Daniel wonder what was going on.
Jane did confide most everything to Daniel, and he never betrayed her confidence. She nodded, and he sat down facing her. Slowly, trying to recall every detail, she told him what Doris had said. When she was finished, he sat looking more shocked than she would have expected.
“Wow,” he said slowly. “Doris’s nephew might have done that to that poor girl.”
“Doris doesn’t think so,” Jane said. “Or at least she says she doesn’t think so. I’ve never met this Arthur, have you?”
“No, but I’ve seen him.”
“Really? Where?”
He thought for a moment, rising. “The last time would have been about a year ago. He was at the church bazaar with Doris. That’s coming up soon, you know. You going?”
“Of course! Who in Shady Hills misses the church bazaar?”
“Laura loves it,” Daniel said at the door.
“Tell her to buy jewelry from Rob.”
“I’ve seen his jewelry,” Daniel said with a smile. “Even in friendship, there’s a limit.” He was laughing to himself as he went out.
She had to laugh, too. Rob’s stuff was pretty awful. She kept to her work, called Bill Haddad, duly stroked him, vetted two contracts, rejected some manuscripts, and when she wasn’t thinking about work, she tried to force herself to think about the church bazaar instead of Arthur. But she knew she was just procrastinating, and remembering one of Kenneth’s favorite sayings, “Do the worst first!” she picked up the phone, called the police station, and asked to speak to Detective Greenberg.
“Mrs. Stuart,” he said brightly. “What can I do for you?”
“This is very awkward. I don’t know quite how to say it. It’s about that poor girl we found in the woods on Sunday. I have something to speak to you about, but I’d really rather do it in person. May I come over to your office and see you?”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t I meet you at Whipped Cream. That would be more convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes—it would,” she said, surprised, “but I really don’t mind—”
“No, let’s meet there. What time is good for you? It’s four-thirty now. Shall we say five?”
“Yes, that will be fine. I’ll see you there.”
Bewildered, she hung up and then called home.
“Florence, I have to do something on my way home from work, so I’ll be about an hour late. Is that all right?”
“Yes, missus, not a problem at all,” Florence replied. “But, missus, I don’t know what to do with this crazy cat!”
“Winky? What is she doing?”
“What is she doing! She is still running around this house like a ball in a pinball machine, that’s what! And when I go near her to pick her up and pet her, she goes even crazier! I think you really should take her to the veterinarian.”
“All right.” Jane heaved a great sigh. A visit to the veterinarian was the last thing she needed right now. But she did love Winky, who was, after all, a member of their small family, and something was definitely wrong with her. “Florence, let’s watch her for one more day. If she’s still bouncing around tomorrow, I’ll make an appointment at the vet.”
“Okay, missus, you’re the boss,” Florence said, but it was clear from the tone of her voice that she disapproved. “We’ll see you about six, six-thirty, then?”
“Yes. How’s Nick? Doing his homework?”
“Yes, he is right here at the kitchen table. For language arts he must write an ad, and I helped him decide what it will be for.”
“Really?”
“ ‘Trinidad!’ ” Florence recited. “ ’Treasure of the blue Caribbean!’ ”
Jane heard Nick giggle in the background. “That’s very good, Florence. I especially like the alliteration.”
“Exactly!”
“Just make sure he writes it, okay?”
“Got it, missus,” Florence said cheerfully, and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Jane was at her table at Whipped Cream. The shop was always quiet at the end of the workday, and since George was always gone by four, Ginny poured them both big mugs of coffee and sat down with Jane.
“Ginny, you don’t look so hot today,” Jane said. “Long day?”
“Thanks a lot,” Ginny said.
“Ginny!” Jane chided her. “You know what I mean. Is something bothering you?”
Ginny lowered her gaze. “Actually, I’ve been crying off and on all day.”
“About that girl?”
“No, though I am sad and creeped out about that. It’s Rob. Yesterday we drove to a craft show in Flemington, and on the way back we had a heart-to-heart.”
“Ah. Whose idea was that?”
“Mine, of course.”
“And what came out of his heart that upset you?”
“He doesn’t want to get married, doesn’t see the point.” Ginny’s eyes welled with tears.
“Doesn’t see the point! How about love, children . . .”
“That’s just it. He doesn’t want children. So if we’re not going to have children, and we know we love each other, why get married?”
“Says Rob?”
“Says Rob.”
“But you do want children, Ginny. And—forgive me—but do you love him?”
Ginny was quiet for a long time. Then, “I don’t know, Jane,” she said, meeting Jane’s gaze. “I don’t know.”
“Sweetie, if you don’t know, something’s wrong.”
“That’s true,” Ginny said, gaze lowered. A tear rolled down her cheek and plopped into her coffee. “Ick.” She laughed, wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I know, Jane, it’s what you’ve been telling me for some time now: Something’s gotta give. Rob and I, we—have problems. We’re always fighting. We want different things. He seems to want only to be left alone. I don’t know if he even wants me around anymore. It’s not like you and Kenneth—” She caught herself. “Oh, Jane, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be silly, Ginny. That was very sweet of you to say. You didn’t kill Kenneth. And you’re right, what we had was special. I want that for you.”
Ginny gave her a grateful smile and pressed her hand down on top of Jane’s.
“Now let’s talk about you,” Ginny said. “Since when do you hang around here at a quarter to five?”
Jane couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Since I’ve started meeting with police detectives!”
“What?”
“It’s the oddest thing. I needed to speak to Detective Greenberg about—about what happened at Louise’s on Sunday, and when I asked if I could come see him, he suggested we meet here instead.”
“Oh, Jane!” Ginny said, her eyes aglow.
“Oh, Jane, what?” Jane said, feigning innocence.
“This is so romantic. I know all about him.”
“You do?”
Ginny nodded eagerly. “He’s never been married. He lives here in town. He had a girlfriend he used to bring by here once in a while—that was maybe two years ago. It was that woman who used to work as a hostess at Eleanor’s. But they must have broken up. One day they just stopped coming. And she must have moved away, because around that time she left her job at Eleanor’s, too.”
Eleanor’s was the nicest restaurant in town, a converted gristmill on the Morris River, not far from the village center. Jane remembered the woman Ginny was talking about, a lovely woman about Jane’s age who had always been friendly and gracious to Jane when she’d gone there for lunch or dinner.
“Very promising,” Ginny said, neatening the table.
“Why?”
Ginny leaned forward. “Why do you think, Jane? Why do you think he wants to meet you here?”
“Because it’s so romantic?” Jane said in a deadpan voice.
Ginny frowned defensively. “It’s more romantic than the police station. What time is he coming?”
“Five.”
Ginny checked her watch. “That’s in five minutes. Fix your hair.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s”—Ginny fumbled for words—”squashed. Fluff it up or something.”
“For goodness’ sake!” Jane said, but she did throw back her head and fluff her hair by running her fingers up through it. “Such foolishness. Is that better? How’s my lipstick?”
“Fine. Yipes, here he is!” Ginny shot up from the table and stood to one side like a soldier with a coffeepot.
Jane looked up just as Greenberg entered the shop. He really was quite attractive. He looked around the shop and when he saw Jane he broke into a smile. It occurred to Jane that he was like a little boy, knowing he shouldn’t smile because this was serious business, but unable to stop himself.
“Mrs. Stuart,” he said, shaking her hand, and dropped into the chair Ginny had just vacated. Ginny, with a wink at Jane over Greenberg’s head, approached the table. “Can I get you something?” she asked sweetly.
“Uh, tea, please,” he said, and with a nod Ginny went off to get it.
Jane didn’t know quite how to begin, but she didn’t have to, because he looked at her with a devilish grin and said, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you here today.”
She laughed. “Well . . . yes.”
“I know it’s not very professional. I don’t even know what it is you want to tell me. But I have a confession to make—a personal one.”
She waited, frowning slightly in surprise.
“When you came to see me last October, I was . . . very impressed with you. I didn’t know if you—I want to—”
Jane, delighted, burst into her own big smile. “You wanted to ask me out?”
He blushed. “Well, yeah.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because this big bad old police detective is a coward!” He laughed.
She shook her head. “Consider this our first date.”
He actually blushed, looking as happy as a child with a new toy. Jane realized that Ginny had emerged from the kitchen just in time to hear what Jane had said. Ginny’s mouth was open, her eyes wide, in an expression of amazed delight.
“Here we are,” Ginny said, now the total professional, and set down Greenberg’s tea. “Would you like anything with that? A piece of cake? Some cookies? We also have salads and sandwiches if you like.”
“No, thanks,” he said, smiling up at her. “I’m having dinner at my sister’s tonight.”
Ginny left them alone.
Greenberg turned to Jane. “You may remember I mentioned my sister to you last fall. You spoke to her reading group.”
“I most certainly do remember. I also recall that you had a novel you wanted me to look at. Well?”
“Well . . . what?”
“Where is it?”
He blushed again. “It’s in my desk drawer in my apartment.” He shook his head. “It’s no good, not good enough to show.”
“Have you finished it?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Well, I guarantee you’ll never get anywhere with it unless you finish it. Publishers—at least the ones I sell to—aren’t interested in half-finished books. Unless, of course, you’re Jane Austen or Louisa May Alcott or Charles Dickens.”
“You’re right. I should get that thing out and just get it done!” He looked at her searchingly. “I bet you’re great with your writers, or authors—or whatever you call the people you represent.”
“ ‘Writers’ and ‘authors’ are fine; also ‘clients.’ ” She shook her head. “It’s just common sense. To be a player, you gotta get it finished. I don’t care if it’s a book or a screenplay or a piece of music. A half-finished masterpiece sitting in someone’s desk drawer doesn’t do anybody any good.”
“So true,” he said, clearly inspired. “Tonight I’m getting out that manuscript—provided your promise is still good.”
“I brought it up! Of course it’s still good. Though I must caution you, I can’t guarantee that even if I like it I’ll be your agent.”
He looked crestfallen. “Why not?”
“Because I’ve made myself a promise—never to mix business with pleasure. I’ve tried it, and believe me, it doesn’t work.”
He nodded. “You mean that Haines guy you were seeing. I used to see you in here with him once in a while. One time you seemed to be . . . having an argument, and he walked out on you.”
“My, my, you were watching closely, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was. And because I saw you with him, I didn’t call you when I wanted to.”
“You should have,” Jane said ruefully. “You would have saved us all a lot of trouble. Anyway,” she went on, her voice cheerful, “that’s all over now. He’s back in New York where he belongs.”
“And you think my business with you might turn into pleasure?”
Now it was Jane’s turn to blush. “Yes,” she said, looking him straight in the eye in a way she knew would make Ginny proud of her, “I do.”
“So,” he said, playing along, “just supposing you liked my manuscript, if you became my agent, I couldn’t ask you out. And if I asked you out, you couldn’t be my agent.”
“That’s right.”
“And if you don’t like my manuscript?”
“Well, then there wouldn’t be any conflict, and you could ask me out.”
He pondered this. “I see.... Of course, in order to find out whether you liked my manuscript, you’d need to read it first.”
“That generally helps.”
“But it’s not finished, as I’ve just told you. So . . . let’s not wait to find out if you like it. Let me just ask you out now. Then I won’t even show you my manuscript.”
“Except as an interested friend.”
“Right. So . . . will you go out with me?”
She felt herself flush. “Yes,” she said, barely able to contain her delight. Out of the corner of her eye, over Greenberg’s shoulder, Jane saw Ginny behind the counter, silently jumping up and down.
“Great!” he said. “What shall we do?”
“I know. This Thursday is a publication party in New York for a book by one of my clients. Would you like to come as my date?”
“Sure! Rub elbows with the literati and all that!”
Jane made a doubtful face. She had never thought of anyone at Corsair as belonging to the literati. But she thought he would have fun. “Then that will be our second date.”
“Good,” he said, looking truly pleased. “Now that we’ve got the important stuff out of the way, what was it you wanted to see me about?”
Jane felt a sinking in her stomach at the thought of poor stooped Doris and her Arthur. Hesitantly, she told Greenberg what Doris had told her about Arthur’s encounter with the strange young girl who fit the description of the woman found hanging in the woods. She left out Doris’s slight doubt about Arthur’s innocence.
Greenberg was all business. “Of course you’re right—I’ll have to have him in for questioning.”
“Would it be all right if I came along—for moral support? As I told you, he’s quite scared. So is Doris, for that matter.”
“You can come along with them to the station, sure, but I’ll have to see him alone. I’d like him at my office at eight-thirty tomorrow. If for some reason he doesn’t show up, I’ll have to send someone to pick him up at the Senior Center or at his house.”
“I understand. Thank you.”
He simply gazed at her; she could tell he was lost in thoughts of the story she’d just told him.
“You know,” Jane said, watching him closely, “Doris—and . . . other people—feel pretty certain that poor girl didn’t kill herself.”
He looked at her, his expression giving away nothing.
“The reason they think so,” she went on, “is that apparently the tree had no branches from which she could have jumped after putting the noose around her neck.” She watched him for a reaction.
He seemed to hesitate. Then, with a guarded look, he said, “That’s correct.”
“And if she’d put something on the ground to stand on, it wasn’t there when we found her. A rock, a log . . . Unless someone had taken it away.”
He allowed a small smile. “Doris is sharp. We—the police, I mean—came to the same conclusions. But let me ask you this: Why would anyone have taken it away? That suggests someone wanted to make a suicide look like murder.”
Jane shook her head to signify she had no idea. “This is where you come in.”
“Sounds as if you and Doris have already come in. And why not?” he asked with a devilish grin. “You are North Jersey’s Miss Marple.”
She gave a great groan. “Not that again, please.” Agreeing to that interview was turning out to be the worst mistake she’d ever made.
He shook his head. “We can’t imagine why anyone would want to make a suicide look like murder, so . . . we’re treating this as a homicide. In which case, this Arthur could be a vital clue. His story may be a cover-up.”
Jane sat up at this implication.
Greenberg sipped his tea. “I really should pick him up now, but I’ll stick with what I agreed to and wait for him to show up in the morning.”
Jane found herself growing increasingly alarmed at what she knew he must be thinking. “If Arthur had killed this poor girl, why would he have volunteered all that information—about showing her the cave, for instance?”
“Because he knew we’d find the cave anyway. Like I said, he could be covering himself.”
“And have you found the cave?”
“Sure,” he said matter-of-factly. “We found that late Sunday afternoon. It was obvious the young woman had been living there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
He sat back and looked at her, laughing. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought of this, but I really shouldn’t be telling you anything at all, ever!”
She shot him a mischievous grin. “But you are. Why is that?”
He gave a little shrug. “Because I know I can trust you. But I’m breaking rules here.”
She waved the word away. “Rules!” She laughed. “We’re on a date, for goodness’ sake! You’re . . . confiding in me.”
“You twist words around.”
“I’m a book person—that’s my job.” Suddenly she had an idea. “Will you show me the cave?”
He looked at her askance. “Why?”
“I’m curious, that’s all. Maybe there’s a clue there to who this woman was.”
“Has it occurred to you we’ve already searched it with that in mind?”
She grinned. “Sure, but they don’t call me North Jersey’s Miss Marple for nothing.”
He paused for a moment, considering. “All right,” he said finally, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it. It’s not the crime scene. But you can’t touch anything—and you can’t tell anyone I showed it to you.”
“I could have found it on my own,” she pointed out.
“Would you have looked for it?”
“Maybe.”
“Why are you so interested in this?”
An image of Doris, lonely and defeated, flashed before Jane’s eyes. “Because,” she answered honestly, “if Doris says her nephew isn’t capable of hurting anyone, I believe her. Which means that if this young woman was murdered, someone other than Arthur murdered her. There may be a clue in the cave to who that person is.”
“A clue we haven’t found,” Greenberg said.
“Perhaps,” Jane said, rising, and grabbed the check Ginny had left on the table.
“Please, let me,” he said.
“You can get the next one,” she told him. She paid the bill, said good night to Ginny, and borrowed the phone to let Florence know she’d be home a little later than she’d originally planned.
“I’ve never been in a police car,” Jane said, and got into Greenberg’s cruiser, which he’d parked right in front of Whipped Cream. Later he would drive her back to her car, parked behind her office.
Greenberg drove around the green, tawny gold in the light of the setting sun. The trees that towered over the lush grass and the white bandstand were perfectly still, and suddenly Jane remembered the whipping of the wind in the trees when they had found the hanging girl, the stirring of her hair. She forced the image from her mind.
Greenberg started down Plunkett Lane, negotiating its twists through the thick woods. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for our first date,” he joked.
“Our first date is over. This is just . . . business.”
He shot her a frown and slowed to a stop. The road ended there. Before them stood a wall of thick trees and bushes, behind which lay Hadley Pond. Several times Kenneth had taken Jane and Nick fishing there. They had caught perch and sunfish. That image, too, Jane forced from her mind.
Greenberg grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment. They got out and Jane followed him into the woods by way of a path that began between two pines. Fortunately, there was still plenty of daylight, for rocks and low bushes were plentiful, even on the crude path, and walking was difficult.
“Is it much farther?” Jane asked, struggling not to stumble in her medium heels.
“Just a little.”
A few moments later they reached what appeared to be a solid wall of rock, the lower part of its face obscured by bushes. Jane frowned in puzzlement, then watched as Greenberg bent slightly and ducked between two of the bushes, seeming to disappear. “It’s in here,” he called back to her.
She followed him through the bushes and saw that he had squeezed between two outcroppings of rock that formed the cave’s entrance. She stooped to enter. Inside she found Greenberg standing against the right wall, aiming his flashlight at the cave’s center. The ceiling was high enough that Greenberg had to stoop only a little to stand up straight. Jane, at five-foot-nine, rose to her full height and slowly surveyed the space.
It was narrow, about seven feet long by four feet wide. The still, cold air had a dank, mushroomy smell.
On the cave’s dirt floor lay a grimy blanket of indiscriminate color. Scattered all about were bits of waxed paper, plastic wrap, aluminum foil, crumpled-up napkins, empty Coke cans. “Who was she?” Jane wondered aloud. “What was she doing here?” She crouched to get a closer look.
“Remember, don’t touch anything,” Greenberg said.
“I remember,” she said, and let her gaze travel from one end of the cave to the other.
Something odd caught her eye. Near the head of the blanket lay a folded piece of paper that was neither wax paper nor napkin, but appeared to be a page torn from a magazine.
“That,” Jane said, pointing. “Have you looked at it?”
Greenberg crouched beside her and shined his flashlight on it. “That?” he said. “It’s garbage—wrappings from her food.”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t think so. It’s got printing on it. May I look at it?”
With a little exhalation of annoyance, he leaned forward and gingerly picked up the piece of paper between two fingers.
Oh, she thought, you can touch.
Carefully he unfolded the piece of paper. Jane watched closely. The folds in it were sharp, as if the paper had been folded many times along the same lines. Finally, he had it fully open. Jane drew in her breath sharply, for she had seen this page before.
It was the story People magazine had run about Jane and her detective work. In the middle of the page was the close-up photo of Jane, Daniel, and Laura with Winky on Jane’s sofa. The reporter had insisted that Winky wear a deerstalker cap, and the poor thing looked truly ridiculous trying to peer out from under its brim. Jane was grinning widely.
Greenberg turned over the page. Here was the remainder of the story and more photos: the members of the Defarge Club during one of their Tuesday night meetings (minus Penny, because Alan had gone bowling in Boonton that night and demanded that Penny watch Rebecca); Florence and Nick standing in front of Jane’s house; and the group shot of other Shady Hills residents, all dressed in detective-style trench coats, standing together on the village green in front of the bandstand.
Jane stared at the page in complete bewilderment. “Why on earth is this here?” she asked softly.
Greenberg shrugged, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him shoot her a suspicious look. “Good question,” he said, refolding the page and putting it back where they’d found it. Then he rose, clearly signaling that it was time to leave. Jane sensed that he now regretted having agreed to show her the cave.
Jane rose, too. Starting to follow Greenberg out, she cast a final glance at the cave’s contents, still visible in the reflected glow of his flashlight. Something else caught her eye and she stopped short.
“May I borrow your flashlight for a second?”
He shrugged. “Sure.” He handed it to her, waited.
Jane shined the light onto the floor and crouched again. She held the light close to the blanket and involuntarily drew in her breath. She hoped Greenberg hadn’t heard her.
The portion of the blanket within the flashlight’s beam displayed a diagonal lattice pattern of small squares of apricot and peach. It was, in fact, not a blanket at all, but a quilt. Louise’s missing Irish Chain quilt. She couldn’t imagine how it could have gotten there, yet without knowing why, she decided not to mention her discovery to Greenberg.
“What is it?” he asked behind her.
She rose. “Nothing. I thought I saw something else. It was nothing.” She handed back the flashlight.
He turned and started out, and Jane followed. They made their way back through the woods, now deep in cool shadow. They rode in silence back to the village center, where Greenberg drove to the parking lot behind Jane’s office building and pulled up alongside her car.
He glanced at his watch. “I’d better get over to my sister’s or I’ll catch hell.”
She nodded. “Well, thanks for the look.” She felt awkward now, wished she’d never asked him to show her the cave in the first place.
He looked preoccupied, elsewhere. Then he smiled. “Don’t forget—”
“I know, don’t tell anyone you showed it to me.”
“Right. I guess I’ll see you in the morning, with Arthur and Doris.” His face brightened. “And I’ll look forward to our next date.”
She gave him a warm smile. “Me too.”
“Missus . . . yoo hoo!”
Jane jumped. Across the kitchen table, Florence was looking at her, her smile wide but her eyes concerned. “You don’t like my sweet-and-sour pork? My mother made up this recipe. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yeah, Mom.” Nick sat next to Florence, digging into the sauce-drenched meat with gusto. With his free hand he stroked Winky, who sat on the chair next to him—once Kenneth’s chair—purring loudly.
“I’m sorry, Florence, it isn’t that. It’s been a long day.”
Florence shook her head. “All those crazy writers. I don’t know how you put up with them.”
Jane laughed. “They’re not all crazy. Some of them are actually quite sane. But it’s not my writers. I’ve got something on my mind.”
“What?” Nick asked. “The dead woman?”
Jane had considered asking that they not speak of her again, but then had decided that that wouldn’t be wise. She was thinking about the dead woman, about the cave deep in the woods with its pathetic litter scraps. About the People magazine page . . . About Louise’s quilt.
Why had the young woman come to Shady Hills? What had her “wonderful secret” been? Why had she needed to hide until she was ready to approach someone—someone here in town? But who? Someone pictured in the People article? If so, it could be anyone: More than a hundred people had appeared in that piece.
“Mom, you are thinking about that dead girl,” Nick said, and took another bite of pork. “Who was she, do you think?” He turned to Winky, who sat up straight, no doubt thinking she was about to get a handout. “Wink, you know who she was, don’t you?”
“How silly,” Florence said.
Nick turned to her. “She’s smarter than you think. Cats know things we can’t even imagine.”
“Such foolishness,” Florence scoffed. She shivered violently. “I don’t think we should talk about that woman anymore. We should leave all that to the police.”
But mention of the police made Jane think of Greenberg, of visiting the cave, of meeting Doris and Arthur at the station in the morning.
While Nick turned back to Winky, Florence shot Jane a look that said, “Let’s change the subject.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “We have many other things to worry about. Like homework.”
Nick slumped in his chair. “Blech.”
“Never mind blech,” Jane said. “You still have to finish that report on Sussex County. Have you finished gathering your information?”
Nick shrugged indifferently. “No. I’ll get it tonight off the Internet.”
“All right. I’ll help you.”
“And what about the New Jersey cake?” Florence asked. “Aren’t we supposed to bake Sussex County?”
Nick slammed down his fork. “Have you ever heard of anything so stupid?” he said, his eyes bulging so that he looked the way Kenneth always looked when he was exasperated. “What’s the point of baking a cake in the shape of Sussex County? What do we learn from that?”
“You learn the counties of New Jersey, obviously,” Jane said. “The cake makes it fun. And when you have fun learning something, you’re more likely to really learn it and remember it.”
Nick gave her a distasteful look. “Mom, you sound like some kind of textbook or something. Well,” he said with a sigh, “I’m not baking any counties.”
“No one asked you to,” Florence said. “I will bake Sussex. I have the mix and everything.” She looked slightly embarrassed. “Normally I would not use a mix”—she spoke as if doing so were a sacrilege—“but for this project I think it is okay, and besides we are in a hurry.” Nick hadn’t told Florence and Jane he needed a cake in the shape of Sussex County until that morning. “But I’ll need that template Mrs. Arnold gave you,” Florence went on.
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said. “It’s with my stuff in my backpack.” He put down his fork and got up, heading for the green backpack leaning against the kitchen wall near the back hall.
Florence smiled at Jane and shook her head.
In actuality, Jane had wondered more than once why Mrs. Arnold couldn’t have simply had the children color a map of New Jersey’s counties, but one never undermined the teacher. So she jumped up, full of enthusiasm. “I’ll clear the table and load the dishwasher, Florence. You and Nick can start on Sussex.”
“Thanks, missus. This will be fun.” But as soon as Nick had left the kitchen in search of scissors for cutting out the template, Florence’s face grew troubled again, and Jane had no doubt as to the subject of her thoughts.
Later that night, as Jane lay in bed, eyes shut as she waited for sleep, the Irish Chain pattern of Louise’s quilt appeared before her. How had the quilt gotten into the cave? She didn’t want to know. In fact, she wished she had never recognized it. But it was her own fault; she’d asked Greenberg to take her to the cave.
She drifted closer to sleep, then remembered something, and her eyes popped open. She’d forgotten to call Doris. She checked her bedside clock. It was a little after eleven. She grabbed the phone and dialed Doris’s number. Doris answered on the first ring.
“Doris, I’m sorry to call you so late. I did speak with Greenberg. He said he’d like to ask Arthur some questions. He wants Arthur at the station at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you both there at twenty past.”
“All right,” Doris said.
“Oh, and Doris—” Jane said uneasily. “He said that if Arthur doesn’t show up, he’ll have to have him picked up and brought in.”
“He’ll show up,” Doris said.