Seventeen
It was three days later, Thursday, and it was time to leave the office for the day. Daniel poked his head into Jane’s office and they bade each other good night.
From her desk, Jane could see Daniel leave the office by the front door. He stepped onto the sidewalk but, instead of heading toward his car in the municipal lot around the corner, he walked to the curb and simply stood, as if waiting. Jane frowned, curious.
It was a beautiful evening, the weakening sun casting a golden glow over the village green, its tall lush oaks, the ornate white Victorian bandstand. Daniel seemed to be admiring all this, turning his head from side to side, craning his neck a bit as if to see Center Street at the other side of the green.
Jane rose from her desk and went to the window. Just as she reached it, a black limousine pulled onto Center Street at the far end of the green and drove around it, stopping, to Jane’s surprise, right in front of Daniel.
A chauffeur got out, came around to the rear passenger door, and opened it. An elderly African-American man, heavy and gray-haired, in a dark suit, slowly got out of the car. He and Daniel stood regarding each other for a moment; then Daniel stepped forward and offered the older man his hand. The older man stepped forward, took Daniel’s hand, and then suddenly the two men were embracing. When they broke apart, they spoke for a few moments. Then Cecil Willoughby—for that, of course, was who it must be—ushered Daniel into the limousine. The chauffeur closed the door, got back behind the wheel, and the car pulled away from the curb.
Jane, stepping from the window, wiped a tear from her eye.
Saturday, the day of the wedding, had dawned sunny and mild, a glorious day. Jane, Nick, and Florence, arriving at Eleanor’s, found tables set up on the back lawn, which sloped gently down to the millpond, on which three swans glided.
“Very beautiful,” Florence breathed.
Jane scanned the crowd, from which rose laughter and happy chatter. There was Ginny; Cecil Willoughby; a red-haired young man Jane presumed was a college friend of Daniel’s whom Daniel had mentioned; Rhoda Kagan; Doris; Penny, Alan, and little Rebecca; Greenberg; several young women, who must have been friends of Laura’s from Unimed, with their husbands; Nell and Ann, who owned the gift shop next to Jane’s office, with their husbands; an uncomfortable-looking Louise and Ernie.
Jane went to the punch bowl. As she filled a glass for Nick, she glanced up and saw a yellow New York City taxi pull up in front of the restaurant. “What on earth . . .” she murmured, and her jaw dropped when she realized that the woman getting out, dressed in a tiny dashiki and a feathered African-style headdress, was Goddess.
The other guests had noticed, too, and there was a flutter of whispers as they all watched Goddess pay the driver and saunter down the lawn, smiling a broad smile. She walked up to Jane.
“Surprise. Bet you’re wondering what the hell I’m doing here.” Before Jane could respond, Goddess went on, “Laura invited me, kind of a last-minute thing, and here I am.” She winked at Jane. “Thought I’d give all the little people a thrill.”
Insufferable as ever, Jane thought, and wondered if the African getup was in Daniel’s honor.
The wedding ceremony, held under a white tent, was picture-perfect. Laura was magnificent in her Christian Lacroix, Daniel heartbreakingly handsome in a tuxedo. There were lots of tears. After the ceremony, Jane managed to get Daniel alone for a moment.
“Jane, you’re crying.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “What can I say? I’m a crier! I want to give you your gift—a little something just for you, and something for both of you.” She handed him a gift-wrapped box containing the lapis desk set she’d bought him. Then she handed him an envelope containing a check.
“Thank you, Jane.”
“You’re welcome. Something toward the down payment on that house you and Laura want.” She started to cry again. “You know I love you like a son.”
“Nick’s big brother!” he joked, and they both laughed. Then Daniel grew serious. “I feel the same way, Jane. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “Speaking of sons, your father is absolutely charming. Good-looking man, too.”
“Thanks,” Daniel said, nodding thoughtfully. “Dad’s always looked well. Even years ago, just after he’d started Onyx and was heading for a whopper of a heart attack and quadruple bypass surgery. Dad says his doctors are all surprised he’s made it this long.”
“Let’s hope he lives a lot longer,” Jane said, “especially now that you two have reconciled.”
“Amen,” he said.
Luncheon was served. Jane sat next to Greenberg, handsome in a navy suit. On his other side sat Nick, and then Florence, Daniel, Laura, Mr. Willoughby, and between him and Jane, Goddess. Jane, munching on her salad, noticed that Mr. Willoughby and Goddess were engaged in lighthearted conversation, Willoughby’s manner almost flirtatious. Mr. Willoughby must have said something funny, because suddenly Goddess threw back her head and laughed. Then she turned to him. “In that case,” she said, sounding quite serious, “why don’t you have me appear on the cover of your magazine?”
This captured everyone’s attention. The table grew silent.
Mr. Willoughby smiled. “Thank you for the kind offer, but unfortunately—your lovely African costume notwithstanding—all the models on the cover of Onyx are of true African-American background.”
“But that’s reverse racism!” Goddess protested, her smile fading.
Mr. Willoughby looked surprised. Before he could respond, Jane rushed in with a comment about how moving the ceremony had been. Goddess shot Jane an exasperated look, then reached down to the big jute macramé bag at her feet and reappeared with a flattish gift-wrapped box. She handed it to Laura.
“Thank you,” Laura said.
“Open it,” Goddess urged.
Laura looked surprised, then shrugged. “Okay,” she said graciously, and unwrapped the gift. “Ah,” she said, and held up an ornately framed photograph of Goddess.
“Thank you,” Daniel said, and shot Jane a look when Goddess wasn’t looking.
“You’re so welcome,” Goddess said, as if she’d given them all the riches in the world. She looked about her. “This whole middle-class marriage thing—I find it very interesting.”
Jane noticed that Laura was watching Goddess with a slight frown.
Goddess swept on. “It’s so . . . innocent or something. You know, in one of my music videos—the one I did for ‘Always a Virgin,’ I played a bride, except that my gown was pitch-black and I was barefoot.”
No one seemed to know quite what to say. Jane saw Nick whisper something to Greenberg, who shushed him.
Laura threw out her hands. “Well, I admit to being totally middle-class, as you put it. Totally traditional. I mean, look at me! I’m wearing something old . . .” She held out her hand to display a large gold ring. “I’ve had this for years. Something new: my beautiful gown—which Jane helped me pick out. Something borrowed: this bracelet Jane lent me. And something blue: my garter! Can’t show you that!” She blushed slightly.
Goddess, looking totally bored, turned to Mr. Willoughby. “What’d you give ‘em for their wedding?”
Mr. Willoughby, taken aback by her bluntness, gave a little cough. “Why, I gave them their honeymoon,” he said. “Three weeks in Italy.”
“That’s right,” Daniel said, beaming. “Laura and I are leaving right after Jane and I attend the romance convention.”
“Don’t remind me,” Jane groaned, and they all laughed.
Just then Goddess grabbed a flute of champagne at Mr. Willoughby’s place and, with a grimace of disgust, spilled it onto the ground. “Yuck, there was a caterpillar in it. That must be one drunk caterpillar!”
Again everyone laughed. Mr. Willoughby thanked her, making a joke about the worm in a tequila bottle, and everyone fell to talking amongst themselves.
Later, there was dancing. Jane danced with Greenberg, and a few feet away Daniel danced with Laura. The band was playing a song Jane loved, Burt Bacharach’s “Walk on By,” and she lost herself in the good feeling of Greenberg’s body pressed to hers as they swayed to the music.
Suddenly there was a commotion at Jane’s table. Craning her neck, Jane saw Mr. Willoughby lying on the ground. “Oh my God!” she cried, and rushed over to him. His face was bright red, and he was clearly in great pain. “Call an ambulance!” Jane yelled to a waiter, who ran toward the restaurant.
Within a few moments the wail of an ambulance could be heard. It pulled to an abrupt stop on the restaurant’s drive, and two paramedics jumped out.
“Over here!” Jane called to them, and a moment later they were attending to poor Mr. Willoughby, who had not moved from where he had fallen.
Daniel came up to Jane. “It’s his heart. I’m going to ride with him in the ambulance. They’re taking him to St. Clare’s,” he said, referring to a hospital in nearby Denville.
“The poor man,” Jane said. “I’ll have Florence take Nick home. Stanley can drive Laura and me to the hospital.”
“That would be great,” Daniel said. “Thanks, Jane.” And he hurried off.
Jane, wringing her hands, went in search of Florence.
Jane couldn’t concentrate on the copy of Newsweek she had grabbed in the waiting room of St. Clare’s. Nearby, Greenberg, Daniel, and Laura sat staring blankly. Daniel’s father had indeed suffered a heart attack, and was in Intensive Care.
Minutes stretched to hours. When Jane thought she would lose her mind, a doctor emerged from the corridor and approached Daniel. They spoke quietly. Daniel hung his head. “I’m sorry,” Jane heard the doctor say.
Laura took Daniel in her arms. The others stood in shocked silence. Then, like zombies, they all filed out of the waiting room into the sunlight, which now seemed garish and harsh.
“Daniel,” Jane said, embracing him, “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Jane.” He thought for a moment. “I’m only grateful Dad and I had patched things up, that he got to see Laura and me get married. Which, ironically, must have been too much excitement for his poor weak old heart.”
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I’ll go back to Chicago tonight to arrange the funeral. Needless to say, the honeymoon is postponed indefinitely.”
“Daniel,” she said gently, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, and I hope you’ll forgive my asking it now. Why didn’t you tell me who your father was?”
He shrugged. “I guess I felt it was . . . irrelevant. Who he was had nothing to do with what I planned to do with my life. Besides, he and I didn’t even have a relationship when I first met you and Kenneth.” He shook his head. “I never really stopped loving my father—though I didn’t always approve of some of his business practices, and I didn’t want any part of them.”
“Well, it’s all yours now,” Jane remarked. “Unless you’ve got a mother hidden away somewhere.”
“No,” Daniel said with a sad smile, “she died when I was seventeen. Ovarian cancer. As for my inheritance, you’re right—everything Dad had, including Onyx, is mine now.” But clearly this thought brought him neither joy nor comfort. He kissed Jane’s cheek and walked slowly away.
Jane called after him, knowing she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself. “Daniel,” she said hesitantly.
He turned.
“Do you still want to play agent with me?” She had to know.
He frowned at her. “How can you even ask me that? Nothing will change . . . except that now I guess I can buy Laura that big house she’s always dreamed of.”
“Right—with a big nursery!”
He gave a melancholy nod. “The baby—that’s one thing Dad didn’t live to see.”
Later that afternoon, Jane called Daniel.
“Is there anything I can do for you while you and Laura are in Chicago?” she asked.
“Laura’s not going,” he replied. “She was insisting on it, but I told her it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t even know my father.”
“Daniel, my love, she would be going for you, not your father.”
“I know. That’s what she said, and I appreciate it, but I told her it would actually be easier for me if I went alone. I’ll arrange for the funeral, meet with my father’s attorneys to start settling his estate. That should turn into a tangled mess, but I can get things started. As for your doing anything, thanks, Jane, but I can’t think of anything. Well, I can think of one thing,” he added. “The RAT convention. It’s a week from today. It looks as if I won’t be able to go with you after all.”
Damn! “That’s all right, don’t even worry about it. I’ll do just fine on my own. Good luck. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Jane was watching TV with Nick and Winky when the phone rang. Florence picked it up in the kitchen and appeared in the family room a moment later. “Missus,” she said, “it is for you. Detective Greenberg.”
Jane took the phone.
“This may not be the most appropriate time to ask you this,” Greenberg said, “considering what happened to poor Mr. Willoughby this afternoon, but since every time I’m with you, someone seems to die, I thought I’d ask anyway: Can I take you to dinner and a movie tonight?”
Jane felt a rush of delight. “I’d love to. Just let me ask Florence if she’ll baby-sit. She’s officially off on the weekends. Florence,” she called.
“Yes, missus,” Florence replied from the kitchen.
“If you have no plans for tonight, would you be willing to watch Nick? I’ll pay you, of course.”
“Yes, missus, it would be my pleasure.”
Jane got back on the phone. “You’re on—and let’s hope tonight proves the exception.”
“Definitely. What kind of food are you in the mood for, and what kind of movies do you like?”
“Hmm . . . I like every kind of food, as long as it’s cooked—so Japanese is iffy. As for movies, I’m game for anything . . . as long as Goddess isn’t in it.”
Greenberg picked her up at eight and they went to see a movie in Parsippany, a comedy about inept bank robbers.
“I needed a good laugh,” Jane said in the lobby afterward. “Thank you.”
For dinner they went to a storefront Italian restaurant Greenberg liked in Boonton.
“You know,” he said, spearing a piece of fried cali-mari, “when you think about it, it is strange that someone has been murdered two out of the three times we’ve been together. The woman in the woods . . . Holly . . .”
“And the third time someone died! Poor Mr. Willoughby. It is strange,” Jane agreed. “Do you think I’m bad luck?”
He smiled grimly. “Maybe it’s me.”
“We shouldn’t talk like this. Goddess said she thought I’d killed Holly, and I nearly choked on my soda.” She shrugged. “It’s just bad luck—especially for the people who died! Oops, there I go again. I really have to stop with the gallows humor.”
He laughed, his dark brown eyes warm as he looked at her. “That’s one of the things I like about you—your sense of humor. There’s too little humor in the world today. At least in my world. As for this Goddess . . .” He shrugged, at a total loss. “What do you make of her?”
“What do I make of her? She’s a spoiled, rich, talented, rude, arrogant brat. She’s also, at the moment, my biggest client. So I guess I shouldn’t talk that way about her.”
“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”
“And I won’t tell anyone you’ve let me in on the case of the hanging girl,” she said, and as soon as she’d said it, she thought about Louise and Ernie, and this made her feel depressed. “Stanley . . . You don’t really think Ernie could have killed that poor woman . . . do you?”
He looked at her frankly. “I don’t know Ernie well enough to answer that.”
“Typical cop answer.”
He ignored this. “I can tell you that, strange as it may seem, no signs of violence were found on the woman’s body—no sign of rape; no skin under her fingernails to suggest a struggle; no scrapes, scratches, or bruises anywhere on her body—except those left by the rope, of course. If it weren’t for the fact that there was no branch she could have jumped from, and that there was nothing under her feet, it would appear that she committed suicide.”
“But how do we know there wasn’t something under her feet?” Jane asked. “Maybe there was, but someone came along later and removed it.”
Greenberg frowned. “It’s possible, I guess, but far-fetched. That means someone wanted a suicide to look like a murder. What reason would anyone have had to do that? Then there’s the makeup on her face. Someone did that to her, Jane.”
Jane shivered, though the restaurant was warm. “Let’s change the subject—to another murder. Have the New York police learned anything more about Holly Griffin?”
“I spoke to my friend again. He says all they know is that Holly passed her assistant, Jilly, on the way out of the party room and told her she was going to her office to get the framed copy of that writer’s book jacket.”
“Carol Freund,” Jane put in. “My client.”
“Right. Holly said she wanted to give it to Carol. So that explains what Holly was doing in her office. But that’s all they know so far. The letter opener was smeared with fingerprints, but the only ones the police can identify are Holly’s.”
“So in other words,” Jane said, “they still know nothing.” She rolled her eyes. “New York’s Finest.”
After dinner he drove her home and walked her to the front door, a true gentleman. There they kissed, a longer kiss than their first, and Jane felt a tingle right to her very core. She thanked him for the fun evening, and waved until he’d backed out of the driveway and driven past the holly hedge on his way down Lilac Way.