Chapter Twelve
After seeing Stanley off, Jane had returned to her study and tried to get through a stack of book proposals that had been submitted to the agency before Christmas. But it was hopeless. She couldn’t concentrate. Letting a handful of pages drop to her lap, she gazed aimlessly out the window, which looked out on the left side of her smallish front yard, the high holly hedge that enclosed it, and Lilac Way beyond.
As she watched, a car pulled slowly up the street and slowed when it reached Jane’s house. The car was white, with familiar lettering on the side. It pulled into Jane’s driveway, and she realized it was a Shady Hills Taxi.
Frowning in bewilderment, she went to the front door, opened it, and looked out. Behind the wheel of the cab, eighty-something Erol, who had been driving for Shady Hills Taxi for more than thirty years, saw Jane, grinned, and saluted. She smiled and waved back, then squinted, straining to see who his passenger was. All she could make out were moving shadows as whoever it was in the back paid Erol, he handed back change, and the passenger handed back some money, presumably a tip. Erol looked at the bills he’d been handed and scowled.
The right rear door of the taxi opened, and an immense bouquet—no, two bouquets—of red and yellow roses emerged first.
What on earth . . . ?
After the roses came a pair of pudgy legs.
No. It couldn’t be.
It was.
With difficulty, Bertha Stumpf extricated herself from the cab. She pulled down her tight dress with a shimmying movement, then slammed the car door shut. Erol backed out and drove away up the street.
Bertha looked appraisingly up at the house, eyes narrowed. Then she saw Jane, her face bloomed into a solicitous smile, and she started up the path to the front door.
What was she doing here?
“Surprise!” Bertha cried, clip-clopping up the steps in her heels. “Bet I’m the last person you expected to see, huh?”
“That’s for sure.” Jane made herself smile. It occurred to her that she should have seen this visit coming. Over the course of their working together, Bertha had made several references to the possibility of their getting together sometime “in Jane’s neck of the woods.” Jane had found the idea repugnant. Not only did she find Bertha tiresome at the best of times, but she never socialized with the writers she represented. Even if she did, the last thing she would ever do would be to invite one to her home.
Years ago, when Jane and Kenneth had both worked at Silver and Payne, the large old literary agency where they had met, Beryl Patrice, the agency’s president, had given Jane a piece of advice : “Don’t ever wear your mink to lunch with a client, and whatever you do, don’t ever let a client see where you live. Either the client will feel you live too lavishly and have achieved this affluence off her back, or else the client will feel you live shabbily and will decide you’re a loser. Either way, it causes resentment. It’s a no-win situation.”
It was the only thing of any value Beryl had ever said to Jane. She wondered which category Bertha would fall into.
“Jane, darling!” Bertha cried dramatically, bearing the vivid bouquets up the steps like an Olympic torch, and threw her arms around Jane. “Please forgive my dropping in like this, but how could I leave town without knowing you were all right?”
“How did you know where I live?”
“You’re in the book, Jane.” Bertha trotted past Jane into the foyer. “What a fabulous house. So old-fashioned and cozy. And so big! What do you call this style?”
“Chalet, mock Tudor.” Jane shrugged. Was this really happening?
“Well, it’s adorable. Here,” Bertha said, practically shoving the flowers in Jane’s face. “These are for you, darling. I figured you could use some cheering up after what happened this morning. I’m so sorry.” Jane took the flowers, and Bertha shrugged out of her coat.
Florence and Nick appeared from the kitchen and stood staring. “Bertha—oh, sorry,” Jane said.
“No, my real name is fine here, silly,” Bertha said with a wave of her hand. “This is family.”
Family. Hanging up Bertha’s coat, Jane felt as if she were going to be sick. “Bertha Stumpf, I’d like you to meet my son, Nicholas, and this is Florence.”
Nick said a quick hi. Florence looked bewildered at this unexpected guest but stepped forward graciously and shook Bertha’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said.
Bertha gasped. “Love the accent,” she said, as if it were something Florence had selected and purchased. She gave Florence and Nick an arch smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you two.”
Still they both stood there, staring. Jane gave Florence a quick wave of her head that meant Beat it.
Florence relieved Jane of the roses, then took Nick by the hand and led him back toward the kitchen.
“My word,” Bertha said, watching Nick nostalgically. “Such a handsome young man. The spitting image of Kenneth.”
Bertha had known Kenneth in the early years when she and Jane worked together, but she was wrong about Nick’s looks. In actuality, Nick looked mostly like Jane. But Jane felt no desire to point this out to Bertha, who now stood in the center of the foyer, looking around. “Well.”
“Well is right,” Jane said, able to bear it no longer. “Bertha, what are you doing here?”
Bertha turned to her, shock on her face. “I just told you. I wanted to make sure you were all right before I left town. How could I leave without seeing you?”
Easily, Jane thought.
“I mean,” Bertha went on, “what’s the difference whether I take a later bus? You matter most. So,” she said, and turned a piercing look on Jane, “how’re you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.” Anger welled in Jane and though she tried, she couldn’t keep it tamped down. “Bertha, this really is the height of insensitivity. My oldest friend died last night—was murdered—and you use her death as an excuse to stop by here, at my home, to talk about your career.”
Bertha opened her mouth as wide as it would go. “My career? What are you talking about? I’ve just told you twice—”
“Yeah, yeah, you told me twice. And you’re full of it twice. I know you better than that.”
“What are you saying? That I’m not a thoughtful person? Who was it who saved your life that time at the Waldorf when you were hurt so badly? Who told the police and the EMTs who you were? Who came to the hospital to make sure you were all right?” Bertha’s eyes were moist with tears. “Really, Jane, I’m very hurt.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “All right, I’m sorry. You want some coffee?”
“I’d love some,” Bertha said, immediately back to business, and roamed into the family room. “Fabulous house,” she mar veled. “Fabulous.”
“This way,” Jane said, and led her into the living room.
“Even more beautiful,” Bertha pronounced as she arranged herself comfortably on a sofa.
“I’ll be right back,” Jane said, and went to the kitchen.
“Missus,” Florence whispered as soon as she saw Jane, “who is that woman?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Nick said from the kitchen table. “She’s so fat.”
“Nicholas! That’s a terrible, unkind thing to say.”
Nick shrugged. “I can tell you don’t like her.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I can tell, that’s all. I can always tell. I think it’s called body language.”
“Oh, really?” Jane said, unable to suppress a smirk. “And what kind of body language was I using with her?”
“The kind that says, ‘I don’t like you, but I’m going to pretend I do.’”
Florence giggled. “Missus, can I make you and your friend some coffee?”
“Thank you, Florence, that would be lovely. And some of those cookies if there are any left.” Jane glanced at Nick’s crumb-covered plate. “And by the way, she’s one of my clients. She writes romance novels under the pseudonym Rhonda Redmond.”
“Ah,” Florence said, her face lighting up, “the very successful Rhonda Redmond.”
“Right,” Jane said, “so behave yourselves, both of you.”
Nick let out an evil little snicker, and Florence gave one solemn nod. Jane returned to the living room, where Bertha sat with her legs crossed. “Jane, I feel I’m intruding.”
Very perceptive. “No, don’t be silly, Bertha. It’s a surprise, that’s all. Perhaps if you had called first . . .” I would have had a chance to tell you not to come.
“You’re right, I should have. But I didn’t have your home number.”
“Yes, you did. You just said I’m in the book.”
“Oh, yes, right.” Bertha shifted uneasily. “Anyway, I’m here now, and as soon as I’m sure you’re all right and that there’s nothing I can do for you, I’ll be on my merry way.”
“Very thoughtful,” Jane said, sitting on the sofa perpendicular to Bertha’s. “I’m fine, really.”
“It’s all such a shame. Not only about your friend, but about the retreat. It was going so well, don’t you think?”
Jane frowned. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. No one got along. Everyone was constantly sniping at one another. And the students’ work itself was extremely disappointing—except, maybe, for William Ives’s novel. I thought that was remarkably well written.”
Bertha rolled her eyes and gave a lazy wave. “Please. Do you really think he wrote that? Gimme a break. Arliss wrote it for him.”
“I know that’s what Brad Franklin said, but do you really think so?”
“Absolutely. It was of publishable quality. How could that dried-up little raisin of a man have written that himself?”
“What does his appearance have to do with how he writes? You’re not exactly—forgive me—Marilyn Monroe.” On the other hand, you’re a lousy writer, so maybe you’ve got something there.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that he came out of nowhere.”
“You came out of nowhere once.”
Bertha made an exasperated tsking sound. “Anyway, he wasn’t the only student whose work had merit. My own Ellyn Bass is a lovely writer.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. She writes with genuine passion. That’s all that really matters. When you write with passion, your readers know it. Why do you think I’m so successful?”
“I don’t know, why are you?”
Bertha placed the palms of her hands to each side of her on the sofa. “Jane, you are angry at me for coming here. Don’t deny it. Instead of making these passive-aggressive little quips, why don’t you speak your mind? I’ll be happy to leave if you like. I’m not staying long anyway.”
Jane lowered her gaze, duly abashed. “I apologize, Bertha. You’re right. I was annoyed to see you. I never have clients in my home, and I’m not exactly in a visiting mood.”
“All right, then. Thank you. Let’s start again, shall we?”
Florence came in with the coffee and cookies. “Here we are,” she said, and set them down on the cocktail table.
Bertha put milk and Equal in her coffee and grabbed two cookies, munching on one as she watched Florence leave the room. “She’s a treasure, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is. She’s like family.”
“Like I said,” Bertha cried in a high-pitched voice. “Me too. And what kind of relative would I be if I hadn’t stopped by? So we were talking about the retreat and that sweet Ellyn Bass. You keep an eye on her, Jane. She may very well be the next me.”
Heaven forbid. “Thanks for the tip. She is a member of the writers’ group here in town, the Midnight Writers, so I can keep tabs on her.”
“Good.” Bertha started on her second cookie. “Have you heard from your friend Stanley?” she said with her mouth full. “Does he have any idea who did that awful thing to Ivy?”
“No. It’s soon yet.”
“True. But we all know who did it, don’t we?”
“Who?”
“That Johnny, of course. I can imagine exactly what happened. I’m not a novelist for nothing, you know.” Bertha closed her eyes and threw back her head theatrically. “Ivy was mad for the man,” she began in a husky voice that reminded Jane of Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. “And what happens? He and Carla take one look at each other and a fiery passion rages.” She shook her head sadly. “Ivy had no hope of keeping him, poor little thing. But love doesn’t die without a fight. On the path down by the pond, she confronted him, told him she loved him, demanded that he forget Carla . . .”
Jane remembered the sounds of shouting that came from Ivy and Johnny’s room.
Bertha swept on, “But he would have none of it! He told her they were through. She slapped him. He hit her back. He has a furious temper—men like that always do. Enraged, she slapped him again. They struggled. She wouldn’t let him go. And Johnny knew that the only way he could ever have Carla was to get Ivy out of the picture. So he whipped out the ice pick and—” She let her head fall. “Well. You know the rest.”
Jane stared at her in amazement. “‘He whipped out the ice pick’? What would he be doing carrying around an ice pick?”
“I don’t know.” Clearly Bertha felt this was a triviality. “He’d put it in his pocket earlier—you know, without thinking.”
“Oh, Bertha,” Jane said, “that’s ridiculous. Whoever killed Ivy stole that ice pick with the express intention of using it on her later. This was no crime of passion.”
“Hmm,” Bertha said, considering, and shrugged. “Then I have no idea. Unless,” she burst out suddenly, “it was Carla! She wanted Johnny for herself and had to get Ivy out of the way. Now that would make more sense.”
“Yes,” Jane had to admit, “it would.” Then she had another idea. “You know, I’ve just remembered something. On Wednesday night Ivy told me Red Pearson had made two passes at her. She wasn’t at all interested, of course. Maybe—”
“Maybe Red killed Ivy because she wouldn’t have him? No way.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Bertha blushed. “Because,” she said, placing a hand delicately to her bosom, “Red Pearson was interested in me.”
“In you? ” Jane faltered.
Bertha stared at her coldly. “Is that so unbelievable ?”
“No, no. It’s just that I had no idea.”
“C’est vrai,” Bertha said airily, then hunkered down. “I think he’s dishy, don’t you?”
“Red? Bald Red Pearson in the red flannel lumberjack shirts? Uh, no, I don’t.”
“Wait till you’re a bit older, Jane. You won’t be able to be so choosy.”
“I won’t need to be. I’ll have Stanley.”
“And if he loses his hair? Will you lose interest?”
“ No.”
“All right then. It may very well be that Red was interested in Ivy at the beginning of the retreat, but that was before he got to know me.” Bertha wiggled her eyebrows. “And boy, did he get to know me.”
“Bertha! There are some things I don’t need to know.” But Jane marveled that she hadn’t been aware of this particular situation.
“And there are things you don’t know,” Bertha said, as if reading her mind. “Anyhoo, that’s where I was after the police let us leave the lodge this morning—at Red’s house. He’s got a darling place way up at the north end of town—not terribly far from Mt. Munsee, actually—with the prettiest little yard—”
“You went to Red’s?” Jane asked, scandalized.
“For lunch. We had a lovely time, and we’re going to be getting together again, probably in New York. It was while I was at Red’s house that I had the idea of stopping by to see you before I left town. Red wanted to drive me here, but I knew he was eager to start on some project in his house and told him I wouldn’t dream of it. He had to get to some store called the Depot, or something like that.”
“Home Depot.”
“That’s it. He said he hadn’t expected to be home from the retreat so soon, but now that he was, he might as well get started. Your house would have been far out of his way. So he called me a taxi.”
“I see,” Jane said, growing bored. She wanted Bertha to leave now. She set down her coffee cup and stifled a yawn.
“You’re exhausted, poor thing. I should go. Lord knows I need to get back to my desk. Lots to do.”
“Oh?” Jane said, and the moment the word was out of her mouth she realized she’d fallen into Bertha’s trap.
“Absolutely. Now that Harriet’s accepted Shady Lady—you’re checking on my money, don’t forget—I’ve got to get started on a new proposal. The question is, who is it for?”
“What do you mean, who is it for? It’s for Bantam, your publisher.”
Bertha looked directly into Jane’s eyes. “I can’t stay there, Jane. As I’ve told you, I can’t work with this girl they’ve assigned to me, and you said there’s no one else there to work with.”
“Whoa, hold it, whoa. What I said was that Harriet Green is a fine editor. I never said there’s no one else at Bantam you could work with. What I said was that Harriet was as good an editor as any editor there.”
“I find that difficult to believe. She’s twelve!”
“Bertha, I’ve told you how that bothers me. It’s ageist and disrespectful. She’s a young woman. How would you like it if she called you a senior citizen ? And what difference does it make how old she is? A good editor is a good editor.”
“Jane, you have to understand about my writing, about me. I write romance from a worldly, experienced perspective. I bring my life wisdom to my writing. I can’t communicate with a woman barely out of college. She doesn’t understand where I’m coming from.”
“Baloney.”
Bertha stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Baloney. Nonsense. Fact is, many of your readers are Harriet’s age. If you think you’re not getting through to them, you’re in trouble.”
“I take it, then, that you are not willing to ask that I be assigned to a new editor.”
“You take it correctly. There would be no point.”
“Then I must leave Bantam.”
“Leave Bantam?” Jane cried. “You’ve been there most of your career.”
“Exactly. Time for a change. My print runs are declining, and so are my sell-throughs. I don’t make the printed New York Times list anymore. I don’t even get a step-back cover anymore,” she said, referring to a double paperback cover.
“Bertha,” Jane said as gently as possible, “none of these problems have anything to do with Bantam. You won’t reverse these trends unless you change what you’re writing.”
“Change what I’m writing! Rhonda Redmond?”
“Rhonda Redmond whose print runs and sell-throughs are dropping. We’ve talked about how the market for historical romances is changing. Why don’t you try a Regency historical? That’s what’s hot right now.”
“Regency,” Bertha repeated distastefully. “So mannered and polite. Hardly a fitting backdrop for a Rhonda Redmond heroine.”
“But that’s just the point.” Jane felt a headache coming on. “A Rhonda Redmond heroine would be all the more shocking and scandalous in that society.”
“Mm,” Bertha said, though she was clearly uninterested. She brushed off her dress and rose. “I really should be going, Jane. Now that I know you’re all right.”
“And we’ve discussed your career.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Bertha said with a surprised little laugh. “We have, haven’t we.”
“But we’ve resolved nothing.”
“True, but I do appreciate your thoughts, as always. You want me to write a Regency historical for Harriet at Bantam.”
“Yes.”
“Let me give it some thought.” Bertha started toward the foyer. “Now if you’d be a doll and call me a cab to take me to the bus . . .”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll drive you,” Jane said, taking their coats from the closet.
“You would? You’re a sweetheart. Oh, and Jane . . .” Bertha said, buttoning her coat.
“Yes?”
“Please don’t tell anyone about Red and me—not that you would, of course.”
“Right. I wouldn’t.”
“Thanks. You know how people are.”
Yes, Jane thought, putting on her scarf, she knew how people were. And as she headed for the kitchen to tell Florence and Nick she’d be right back, it occurred to Jane that she should be grateful to Bertha. She had, at least for a time, managed to take Jane’s mind off poor Ivy.
Outside, Bertha paused and gazed up at the house. “Nice place,” she said with a thoughtful frown, and started along the path to Jane’s car.