Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “No. And that’s final.”
That’s final? Ivy understood that Griffin Fargo felt oddly responsible for her safety. And she appreciated the extra protection he afforded her. But she was capable of taking care of herself (being pulled into closets by murder suspects notwithstanding). And it wasn’t like she wanted to traipse all over Manhattan alone; Alanna had called to invite her for an afternoon of “girlie bridal stuff.” Her friend had finally paid for her wedding dress in full, was now ready for her first fitting, and needed Ivy’s been-there-done-that advice. And it was also time to try on bridesmaid dresses.
Oddly enough, Ivy wanted to do this. Wanted to spend a few hours at Best Bridal in Applewood, going through racks of pastel taffeta creations with bows on the butt, oohing and ahhing at Alanna in her gown, obsessing over headpieces. That, at least, was normal. What a normal person did when her best friend was getting married. Much more normal than being afraid to leave the side of a detective because a lunatic had threatened her.
“Griffin, Joey needs you today. And I need my best friend. My BFF, as the kids say. I need to feel normal.”
He stared at her, seemingly understanding that his hands were tied. She couldn’t stay in his apartment forever. “I’ll be checking in with you every hour, Ivy.”
She smiled. “Fine.”
“Every hour,” he repeated. No smile, of course.
“Every hour,” she repeated.
We are partners.
They were partners. Every day Ivy saw more and more just how well Griffin knew the meaning of that word. He’d illustrated it beautifully as he’d comforted Joey earlier. As she’d listened, she’d thought: This is the definition of partners. Someone who is there for you. Someone who lets you cry it out. Someone, in cop speak, who has your back.
Griffin had Joey’s back. And he had hers. What she hoped was that Griffin would let someone have his.
Why are bridesmaid dresses so hideous? Ivy wondered as she slid dress after fancy dress on the rack at Best Bridal. What was the need for two-foot-high puffs atop each shoulder? A giant bow directly on the butt? A band of white directly around the hips?
Ah, now this is more like it, she thought, removing a long, satin pale pink number with a halter-style top and delicate beading across the waist and hem.
“Find anything?” Alanna called out from her dressing room.
“A winner,” Ivy said, holding up the dress to her in front of the wall of mirrors opposite the dress racks. “Perfect for your early summer wedding.”
Alanna poked her head out of her room. “Love it. But I was really hoping you’d choose something mint green with multitiered ruffles.”
Ivy laughed. “You are kidding, right? You never know with brides.”
“No,” Alanna said, her expression dead serious. She broke into a grin. “Totally kidding. Though it does describe the dress my cousin is making me wear in her wedding.” Her face sobered again. “Ivy, you sure you’re okay with being here, doing all this wedding stuff? Because if it makes you the slightest bit sad, just say the word and we’ll go stuff our faces with pizza.”
“That sounds good, actually, but no—I’m not the slightest bit sad. And I mean it. I’m past sad. What are the stages you go through when your wedding is stopped mid-walk down the aisle due to a runaway, criminal groom with multi-fiancées?”
“I think the stages are varied forms of relief,” Alanna said. “With just about every possible other emotion.” She popped her head back in. “So are you ready to see the dress I’ve been talking about for weeks?” she asked, parting the curtains.
Ivy gasped. “Oh, Alanna. You look absolutely stunning.” The gown had an antique look, despite being brand new.
A short, stocky woman with a tape measure around her neck appeared from a back room. “Are you ready to be fitted? Whenever I hear a gasp like that, I know someone is happy with a dress.”
Ivy stared at Alanna’s reflection in the wall of mirrors. Her dear friend looked the way Ivy had looked on the day of her own almost-wedding. She could still remember sitting in the chair, fussing over her rhinestone barrettes, her sisters fluffing her train, Ivy marveling at the expression on her own face. The joy, the expectation.
It was a wonder Ivy still had expectations. At least Declan hadn’t robbed her of her own hopes and dreams and aspirations.
While the seamstress was pinning Alanna’s dress, Ivy stepped outside to call Griffin, as promised. He and Joey were on the way to Griffin’s gym to play basketball and do some laps in the pool.
It was so good to hear his voice, that deep voice she couldn’t get enough of. They spoke for just a few minutes, Ivy assuring him all was well, where she was, where she was headed next. And then he was gone, the phone silent, and Ivy again felt the sharp stab of absence.
When she returned to Best Bridal, the seamstress was done fitting Alanna’s dress, and it was Ivy’s turn to hop on the step stool and be pinned and poked in her pretty pink satin. Then, the two women spent a wonderfully long time choosing a headpiece and veil. What luxury this is, Ivy thought, discussing the nuances of lace and clips as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated in Luigi’s Ristorante, awaiting a large pie with the works and a Caesar salad to split.
“Ivy,” Alanna said, her expression serious, “I’m so proud of the way you handled yourself with Declan—when he attacked you and had you at gunpoint. You managed to elicit information out of him without antagonizing him. That’s such good police work.”
Ivy sipped her Diet Coke. “Thanks. I really need to hear that. Because I feel like the world’s worst cop. Not suspecting a thing in all my months with Declan. My house getting destroyed. I might as well be our waitress or a bank president or anyone without a shred of police training.”
“How could you possibly know Declan was living a double life?” Alanna asked. “You can’t be so hard on yourself, hon.”
“I might have suspected something if I’d been willing to look. Or think. Like Declan’s interest in me in the first place. Come on.”
“Ivy!” Alanna said.
“Wait—are you yelling at me because I’m doubting such a handsome man could have really fallen for me, or because I made Declan sound like he was anything more than pond scum?”
Alanna furrowed her brows. “Both.”
“I didn’t know he was pond scum,” Ivy whispered. “I didn’t know because I wanted his attention. I wanted a good-looking man like him to fall madly in love with me. So I ignored so many red flags.”
“Name one,” Alanna said, helping herself to a garlic knot from the basket the waitress set on their table.
“He was so in love that he spent only two nights a week with me. He was so in love that he never asked to move in with me, preferring to live in a dorm? With a roommate who supposedly snored? He was so in love with me that he managed to avoid most of my work functions—parties and dinners. Gee, maybe because he wanted to avoid a large group of cops.”
“Ivy, based on what you thought—that he was a student—of course he could only spend a couple nights a week with you. A weekend night and one during the week. Totally normal. And of course he would live—supposedly—in a dorm. That’s where students live. To be close to school. And what man enjoys his girlfriend’s work or family functions?”
“So you really don’t think my judgment is shot?”
Alanna took Ivy’s hands. “No way. Not at all. And no one thinks so, Ivy. Except for you, maybe. So work on that, okay?”
Ivy smiled. “I’ll absolutely try.”
“And remember something. What you did in that closet, how you handled yourself as a police officer, kept you from getting killed. And you got the suspect to reveal vital information about the murder.”
Ivy contemplated that for a moment, taking a sip of her soda. “You know, I really do think that if Declan wanted to kill me, he would have. Right in that closet. No one woul
d have been the wiser. No one had been in that hallway but me and him when he’d grabbed me.”
Alanna visibly shivered, and Ivy suddenly had a vision of Griffin tearing the town house apart looking for her, finding her in that closet eventually.
“So what does he want?” Alanna asked. “What’s with the threats and trashing your house?”
“He seems to want me and Griffin off his back so that he could romance his rich women, have a new group of fiancées, be a polygamist, and have several fat accounts—in addition to being the beneficiary of several fat life insurance policies.”
The waitress appeared just then with their lunch, setting down a very large tray of pizza on their table.
“I can’t believe I’m not dieting to make sure I fit into my gown on my wedding day,” Alanna said. “But this looks too damned good.”
Ivy lifted a gooey slice onto her plate. “Alanna, you’re a size four and have been a size four since middle school. I don’t think you’re capable of gaining an ounce.”
As they enjoyed their pizza and did a little reminiscing about high school and which of their old classmates Alanna was inviting to the wedding, Ivy was relieved to have a moratorium from discussing Declan and the case. But when neither of them could eat another bite, Alanna asked the question Ivy couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Do you think Declan’s telling the truth about not killing Jennifer Lexington?”
Ivy shrugged. “I really don’t know. It’s possible. Maybe he really did come home, find her body, panic that he would seem the obvious killer once his double–triple life revealed itself, forge the suicide note, and then run.”
“And it was your house he ran to,” Alanna said. “If he were the killer, I’d almost think he would have tried to flee the country.”
“So if he didn’t kill her, who did? That’s the burning question. One of his other lovers? Maybe he forged the suicide note because he knew who killed her. Laura Frozier. Or another of his fiancées that we have yet to uncover.”
Or, as Griffin would have her believe, her own mother. Ivy knew her mom wanted to see her finally married to “good stock,” but any scenario that led her mother to Jennifer’s seemed so far-fetched. That her mother caught Declan kissing Jennifer passionately, followed Jennifer back to the apartment to confront her, and an argument led to her murder. It just seemed so unlikely. But then, so did Ivy’s entire life at the moment.
“Is there any lead on the woman you thought you might have recognized at the party? The one Declan had been talking to?”
Ivy shook her head. “Griffin’s partner was working on the guest list and questioning people, and so far, we have no idea who she was.”
The waitress brought over their bill, which Ivy tried to pay, but Alanna snatched it out of her hand.
“This is my treat. For schlepping all the way out here today in the middle of everything going on in your life.” She leaned over to hug Ivy. “I love you, my friend.”
Ivy squeezed her back. “I love you, too. And honestly, Alanna, I want to hear every last boring detail of every detail—down to the garnish you select for your chicken entrée.”
Alanna laughed. “Oh, trust me. I’ll be happy to bore you with all that because no one else I know is remotely interested.”
A moment later, they were on the street, the late March air holding a budding warmth that did wonders for Ivy. Soon it would be spring, a time to shed the weight of winter—and these heavy problems. With any luck, Declan would be caught very soon.
Alanna walked Ivy to her car, then glanced at her watch. “My monster-in-law is waiting for me at Richard’s condo. Do you believe I have two hours of china-pattern shopping in my immediate future?”
Ivy laughed and hugged her best friend again. God, it felt good to hear her own laughter.
“Go ahead. I’ll call you later.”
Alanna blew Ivy a kiss as she hurried down the block. Ivy watched her as she rounded the corner, a bit bereft. Sometimes, there was nothing like girl talk.
She glanced at her watch. In ten minutes she’d need to call Griffin again, but she didn’t want to call while on the road. She pulled out her phone. He answered before the phone even fully rang.
“I’m about to hop in my car and head back,” she told him. “You’ll meet me at the secret property, right?”
“Right. Call me when you arrive, okay?”
She assured him she would, and again, the moment their call was disconnected, she missed him. She envisioned him just then, his arm still slung around Joey’s shoulders as they chomped down pizza. Joey was so lucky to have a friend like Griffin, someone who cared, someone so intelligent and insightful, someone with the rare gift of putting himself in someone else’s shoes to see things from their perspective and viewpoint. Griffin was unusually nonjudgmental and—
“Oh, Ivy,” singsonged a female voice.
Ivy turned around but didn’t see anyone who was calling to her. There were many people walking up and down the busy main street of Applewood’s town center, but not a one who was paying a bit of attention to her. Perhaps she was hearing things. She slipped her phone into her purse and got out her keys, only to hear her name being called again.
“Ivy, oh, Iv-y.” The same singsong. And then a head popping out from a doorway down the block.
Ivy strained to see who it was, but the woman had ducked back from view.
What the heck? Someone from the precinct, perhaps? The voice wasn’t familiar.
Ivy hurried down the street toward the doorway, but as she got halfway down, the woman jumped out and stood there in the middle of the sidewalk. Ivy was so startled she froze.
She was even more shocked to discover it was the woman from the party. The one Declan had been talking to. And she looked exactly as she had at the party. Brown straight hair, medium length, early to mid thirties. Conservative clothing. A dark wool coat. She was too far away at this point for Ivy to see her face clearly.
Where the hell do I know this person from? she thought as her legs caught up with her brain and she started running to meet up with her. But the woman smiled and turned and sprinted away, rounding the corner.
What is going on? Ivy wondered.
As Ivy turned the corner, she saw the woman up ahead, running, turning around every few seconds to see how close Ivy was. Why was she calling to Ivy and running away?
“Stop!” Ivy called. “Just stop and talk to me!”
But the woman kept running. She made a right turn two blocks up.
Damn it. If I lose her ...
Ivy turned the corner and stopped dead in her tracks. The woman was gone. Ivy whirled around, frantically looking all around her. Where did she go?
“No! Damn it,” Ivy said aloud, bending down to catch her breath.
And then just as before, Ivy heard her name. In the same singsong voice. “Ivy. Oh, I-vy!”
Ivy ran down the block, frantically checking the doorways to see if the woman was hiding. This stretch of Morley Street was mostly apartment buildings, brick tenements, and walk-ups, and there was an auto body shop at the dead end. Ivy was familiar with this neighborhood. She’d twice been called to the auto body shop, once for a break-in and once because of a fight between two mechanics. And at the far end of Morley, she and Dan had been called in to investigate a call of domestic disturbance. But generally, this was a quiet neighborhood, working class, orderly.
Thanks to the dead end, the woman would not get past Ivy without being seen, unless she was Spi-derwoman.
“Ivy. Ivy Sedg-wick.”
Ivy stopped and turned around. She’d gone too far up the block. She stopped, straining to hear the slightest movement or intake of breath. Where are you? Damn it!
She saw a flash of black material from a doorway up ahead, the hem of the woman’s coat sticking out. She was hiding in the doorway at the next tenement.
Okay, I’ve got you, lady. Whoever you are.
Ivy practically tiptoed up, preparing to pounce.
&
nbsp; And realized she’d walked—run—right into a trap. And even though she thought herself a match for the strong arm that grabbed her into an open doorway, the hunting knife at her throat was another matter altogether.
Chapter Fifteen
“It’s all your fault,” the woman whispered into Ivy’s ear as she dragged her down to the end of the hall. Her breath smelled of peppermint, as though she’d been chewing gum.
Ivy racked her brain to put the voice and face together, but got nothing. She drew a complete blank. She’d seen the woman somewhere, somewhere maybe just once or twice, like at a branch of her bank that she rarely went to. Someone she’d recognize only in context, maybe?
Keep your cool, Ivy girl, she told herself. Just pay attention to the knife, and where it’s pointing. If she tried to jerk away in the slightest, she’d only slide right into the blade. And it was a sharp-looking knife.
“What’s all my fault?” Ivy asked, ordering herself to keep her cool, keep her wits about her.
“Shut up,” was the only response, the knife poking into her neck.
Ivy gasped as shooting pain and wet, sticky blood trickled down her neck.
They were in one of the apartment buildings, a tenement walk-up. Ivy wondered if the woman lived here. The heavy smell of frying onions was overwhelming. Ivy hated that smell. Strangely, her mother came to mind, an image of Dana Sedgwick cooking one of her favorite meals, liver and onions, which Ivy found beyond repulsive. Ivy also thought she smelled liquor on her assailant’s breath. Whiskey.
A loud television could be heard coming from one of the apartments on the ground level. A talk show, Ivy thought dimly.
The woman dragged Ivy to an open black door on the far side of the stairwell. A steep staircase led down into the basement, Ivy assumed.
“It’s all your fault, you rich bitch,” the woman snarled at her.
Rich bitch? “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Ivy asked, trying to keep her voice firm but not antagonistic.
“What are you talking about? Who are you?” the woman singsonged back at Ivy, her features twisting with hate.
Shadowing Ivy Page 17
