Chapter Seventeen
As Saturday evening approached, Jane wondered if Stanley would call. They almost always went out for dinner and a movie on Saturday night.
But he was no doubt mad at her. Remembering what he’d said to her made her even angrier at him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him. . . . No, she did want to see him, and decided to call. From her study, she punched out his home number.
He sounded deeply relieved to hear from her. “I’m sorry about what I said.”
“Thank you, Stanley, but I believe I need to apologize to you.”
“For what?”
“For embarrassing you in front of the chief. I’m sorry.”
“So you’ve decided not to play detective anymore ?”
“I didn’t say that. What I mean is, I’m sorry I have to do what I’m doing.”
“Why do you have to do this?” he said in a tone of forced patience.
“Because Ivy was my best friend, first of all. And because sometimes I think, well, that the police need some help.”
“Okay, fair enough. So you’re going to go on ‘helping’ us, but you regret that you have to do it.”
“Yeah, that’s about right.”
He laughed. “Well, I know I couldn’t stop you anyway. In fact, I don’t believe I’d be able to stop you from doing anything you intended to do. But do me one favor?”
“Sure, name it.”
“Keep me out of it.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised. “In the past you’ve made good use of my help.”
“And gotten in trouble for it.”
“Stanley, you didn’t get in trouble for solving cases with my help; you got in trouble for involving me in police business. What a bunch of hypocrites you all are.”
“Yes, that we can be,” he said brightly. “Now, what are our plans tonight?”
She smiled. “I’d love to see that new Russell Crowe movie. And we still haven’t tried the new Greek place in Parsippany.”
“It’s a date.”
It was strange to be with Stanley but not discuss Ivy or what Jane had learned that day. But Jane had a good time nevertheless. They talked about their plans for New Year’s Eve, which was only two days away, and decided on a quiet evening at Jane’s house—dinner with Nick (and Florence, if she didn’t have other plans), a rented video, and champagne while they watched the ball drop in Times Square.
She knew for sure that she and Stanley were back on good terms when he kissed her deeply at the door before she went in.
Late Sunday morning Jane fortified herself and drove to the Shady Hills Diner. The hostess, the same woman who had seated Jane the day before, was puzzled to see her again. Perhaps she had witnessed the unfriendly exchange between the two women.
Carla, she said, was off today. Jane asked for Carla’s home address.
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you that,” the woman said, no doubt curious as to why, if Jane was her friend, she didn’t know it.
“No prob,” Jane said, figuring she could always get it from Adam if she had to.
Then she got an idea. She went to the ladies’ room, and on the way, stopped a waitress hurrying in the other direction. “Excuse me, I’m a friend of Carla Santino’s from California. I didn’t realize she wasn’t working today. She doesn’t know I’m here—I want to surprise her. I just found out she moved. Do you happen to know her new address?”
The woman, who wore a name tag that read Jean, frowned. “Carla didn’t move. Hey, Bernie,” she hollered to a man behind the counter. “Carla’s still at Heather Gardens, right?”
“Far as I know.”
“Oh, she’s still there,” Jane said. “I don’t know where I got the idea she’d moved. Would you happen to know the apartment number offhand? I don’t think I have it in my book.”
“What number, Bernie?” Jean asked.
Bernie rolled his eyes, then turned and consulted a handwritten list on the wall. “Sixty-seven.”
“Great,” Jane said. “Thank you so much.”
Heather Gardens was a condominium complex not far down the road from Hillside Gardens, where Larry Graham lived. In fact, the two complexes were practically identical. Jane parked in front of number 67, walked up to the scuffed tan front door, and rang the bell.
After a moment the door opened, and Carla stood there in a skimpy Hawaiian-print wrap, her ashy hair in a ponytail. Jane noticed that she wore no makeup. Her face had a dry, haggard look.
For the briefest moment Carla stared at Jane, her face expressionless. Then she slammed the door.
“Why, that—” Jane moved closer to the door. “Carla, I need to speak with you. Please. I know you met with Johnny on Thursday night. If you won’t talk to me about it, I’ll have no choice but to ask the police to do it.”
After a moment the door swung slowly open. Carla regarded her furiously. “Well, come in.”
Jane stepped into a tiny vestibule. Carla apparently had no intention of letting her go any farther into her home. “Well, what about it?” she demanded.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d met with Johnny?”
“What are you, stupid? Why do you think? Because I was afraid to.”
“Afraid? Why?”
Carla nervously fingered a gold chain around her neck. “Because if you or the police knew Johnny was still around that night, you might think he killed Ivy—which he didn’t. Or, if you knew I wasn’t really in my room all night, you might think I did it.” Through slitted eyes she gave Jane a sidelong glance. “How’d you find out I saw Johnny?”
Jane had no intention of putting Ellyn on Carla’s bad side. “Let’s just say you were seen. Are you still in touch with Johnny? Are you going to see him again?”
“I’m . . . in contact with him,” Carla answered cagily. “I have no idea if we’ll get together again.” She cast her eyes heavenward, recalling pleasure. “Though I’d sure like to.”
Jane regarded Carla thoughtfully. “Listen. I need to speak to Johnny. I’ll make a deal with you. If you tell me how to reach him, I’ll keep your meeting on Thursday night a secret.”
“A little blackmail. Okay,” Carla said slowly. “I guess he won’t mind my giving you his number. He’s a big boy. Wait here.” She disappeared into the apartment for a few moments, then reappeared with a slip of paper on which a phone number was written. She handed the paper to Jane and smirked. “Tell him to call me.”
It was a New York City number, area code 212. For a brief moment, Jane considered sharing it with Stanley, then remembered their conversation and decided against it. Besides, she always accomplished more on her own.
In her car, she called the number on her cell phone. The phone rang four times and was picked up by an answering machine. “Leave a message,” came Johnny’s rough-edged voice.
“Johnny, it’s Jane, Jane Stuart. I need to see you. It’s urgent.” She left her cell phone number, not wanting him to call her at home.
She was back in her neighborhood, driving along Grange Road, when her cell phone rang. She pulled over and answered it.
“What do you want?” Johnny asked without preamble. He sounded different now—brusque, tougher.
“I know you were still around the lodge when Ivy was murdered.”
“Murdered!”
Was he really surprised? Wouldn’t Carla have told him?
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she replied, playing along. “The police are looking for you as the prime suspect. You can talk to them or me.”
“You. Here in Manhattan. Tomorrow morning.”
“Fine. Where?”
“In the park.”
“Central Park?”
“Yeah. Uh . . . there’s this playground. Go into the park at East Seventy-ninth Street.”
“All right. What time?”
“I don’t know, ten. And listen to me, Jane. You go to the cops about me, you’re gonna be one very sorry lady.”