by Jane Haddam
“He cared what Felicity thought of him,” Stephen said. “He wanted Felicity to think he was a big tough man.”
“I don’t believe it,” Martinez said.
“I don’t believe it either,” I said. “It’s easier to say he was afraid to say no to her. He was afraid to say no to anybody. He hated having people mad at him.”
“This is the screwiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Martinez said.
Tony Marsh stuck his head back into the office, looking sheepish.
“The other one’s out here,” he said. “The short one. She’s got—ah—dinner.”
Phoebe’s voice floated in from the corridor. “I’ve got enough food for everybody,” she said. “I’ve even got enough plates. I’ve got plastic forks. You have to let me through.”
“Let her through,” Nick said. “This stuff is heavy. And it’s hot.”
EPILOGUE
MURDER, AS I SAID, IS only the beginning. As soon as I saw the Post edition with LOVE GIRL LICKS ANOTHER ONE for a headline, I knew I didn’t want to stick around for the encores. I made my statements to the police and went over my probable testimony with the district attorney’s office. I left an address with Martinez and took the first plane I could get to London. Nick got the cat and a note. “I don’t care what kind of principles you’ve got,” I told him. “Either get this relationship moving or get out of it.”
I stayed in London nine months. During those nine months, the following things happened:
Irene Haskell recovered. Phoebe got a copy of her manuscript, read it, did some minor corrections, and sent it to a friend of hers at Harlequin. Irene ended up with a contract for four books and the pen name Irina Hayes. She still wanted to sue Writing Enterprises, even though there wasn’t much of it left. The fact that her book had been accepted for publication so easily and with so little revision proved they’d been conning her.
Ivy Samuels Tree recovered, too, although it took longer. Nick used the publicity she got from the Brookfield murders—all good, after the papers could portray her as a helpless (and beautiful) victim—to pressure Dortman and Hodges into putting her own picture on the back of her books. He even got them to sponsor a publicity tour for her latest, Castle on the Moors. Castle on the Moors was due out in January. With any luck, by that time Ivy would have stopped talking about sleepwalking altogether.
Janet Grasky got a job typing for Joan Liddell, was promoted to general secretary, and started night classes at Brooklyn College toward a bachelor’s degree in business. Joan was paying for Brooklyn College. She had also given Janet a raise. Janet, released from the defeating atmosphere of Writing Enterprises, had got religion. She believed in ambition, efficiency, and the sanctity of hard cash the way a devout Catholic believes in papal infallibility.
Writing Enterprises closed. Martin Lahler went first to a company making plastic frogs that swam in bathtubs and phosphorescent bumper stickers with sexy logos—as sexy was defined in 1948. They went bankrupt thirteen weeks after he arrived. He then moved to a company making whoopee cushions, exploding cigars, and ties that squirt water. He should be happy there. They’ve been going bankrupt for years.
Stephen Brookfield was not arrested for possession of heroin, or anything else. He was the district attorney’s favorite witness. He had to be taken care of. They arranged a protracted stay at a very expensive, very elegant drug treatment center upstate. He sent me a postcard from there. “This is impossible,” he said. “I seem to be doing it anyway.”
Phoebe sent me an entire letter. I quote: “I had Nick here last night with his new law partner who is David Grossman and knows my mother’s sister’s husband from Green Haven which is to say the rich side of the family and I told him about my parents and Union City and he didn’t seem upset. He’s very dedicated. I admire people who are very dedicated even if they don’t eat enough and he doesn’t seem to mind that I eat too much and he reads all my books and is very impressed and we are going to Mamma Leone’s Thursday and get a table big enough for just the two of us. He says maybe we should go to a concert first because there’s the Amati Quartet at Lincoln Center and I think if we do that it will be a Real Date. What do you think?” I think Phoebe is in love. It ought to be interesting. I have never seen Phoebe in love. I have never seen Phoebe with enough time for any love other than the kind that can be put into the pages of a romance novel. I also think David Grossman would do well to be a nice man. If he isn’t, both Nick and I will kill him. Sequentially. It is a fallacy that you can only die once.
Nobody wrote me about the case. They didn’t have to. I got The International Herald Tribune. The International Herald Tribune is hardly the New York Post, but it did manage to give me the essential information. It reported Jack Brookfield’s guilty plea, for instance. It also reported Felicity Aldershot’s suicide. Having been released on bail through the prolonged and overpaid efforts of an internationally famous murder defense specialist, she went home, stuck the barrel of a Saturday night special in her mouth, and blew off the back of her head.
I waited for the publicity to die down. Then, on a cold day in early December, I caught a plane for New York.
Nick met me at JFK. He took my bags, got us a cab, and asked how I enjoyed my flight. He knows how I enjoy flights. I don’t enjoy flights. The only way I could enjoy a flight is if I were unconscious.
When we were crossing the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, he asked me, “Are you jet-lagged? I’ve got something to tell you I don’t want to tell you unless you’re jet-lagged.”
“What if I’m not jet-lagged?” I asked him. “You never tell me?”
“I wait till you’re drunk,” he said.
“I’m jet-lagged,” I said. “I’m also hung over, because I drank too much so I wouldn’t be scared. I’m also exhausted because I can never sleep on planes and I can never sleep the night before I have to ride on a plane.”
He considered this and found it good. He knew me. He said, “All right. Get ready. This is it. I can’t stand not having you around.”
I put my cigarette in the half-inch-wide ashtray on the cab door and turned to him. He does look like Christopher Reeve. And he means well.
“All right,” I said. “I can’t stand not having you around, either.”
“I don’t like casual shit,” he said. “Casual has nothing to do with a relationship. A relationship is never casual no matter what you think.”
“Give it up,” I told him. “I won’t sleep with anybody else but you as long as I’m sleeping with you. That far I’ll go. Any farther I won’t go.”
“That far you’ll go?” Nick said.
“That far I’d always have gone,” I said.
“Shit,” he said. “Two years I’ve been arguing this one. Two years.”
I said something unintelligibly soothing, put out my cigarette, and laid my head in his lap. I’d had the day. I closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until Nick started bouncing around on the seat, looking through his pockets for money to give the driver.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Patience McKenna Mysteries
ONE
EVERYBODY WHO COMES TO New York from somewhere else and does reasonably well at something nobody has any right to expect to do reasonably well at wants to show off. Some people are very, very successful and very, very lucky and get to do their showing off in print. They appear in People and Us and Parade, telling the world why they love Paris and how the fried oysters at Orsini’s make a yearly trip to Rome a must. The people back home—the adolescent love object whose scorn destroyed an ego for a decade, the supercilious Latin teacher with dire predictions of ditchdigging at the end of the educational amnesty, the thin girl in Villager skirt and sweater sets who thought pudgy old Maria too boring to bother with—receive their comeuppance in photo bleed. Ms. Really Famous smiles for the photographer and imagines the oh-so-superior Sheree Singer, head cheerleader and Most Popular Girl of the Glen Oaks Senior High School Class of ’69, stuffing the latest copy
of Cosmopolitan into the ride seat of the wire grocery cart between Junior’s reeking diapers and her own ballooning stomach. Ms. Really Famous has nothing to worry about. The Sheree Singers of this world always end up pushing reeking babies around in wire grocery carts.
The rest of us have to work a little longer, try a little harder, or give up and declare a truce. I thought I’d declared a truce long ago. The girls who were my enemies at Emma Willard were now, like me, women in their thirties. With the exception of a Rockefeller cousin who married an English duke and a Pillsbury relative with a large private income and a penchant for opening campy boutiques, they were proper Manhattan matrons with administrative jobs in Wall Street law firms and husbands in brokerage houses. They envied me my height (six feet), my weight (125 pounds) and sometimes my hair (very long, very thick, very blond). They expected me to envy their lives. I didn’t, but I didn’t tell them that. If I ran into them in Saks, I smiled and nodded and said how wonderful it must be to be settled. I intended to be settled in the year 2000, just in time for the coming of the third millennium.
Maybe if I’d had what most Americans call a normal adolescence—small town or moderate-income suburb, coed public high school, four years at the state university—I would never have gotten involved with Sarah English. Maybe I would have been like Phoebe, my old Greyson College roommate and now the world’s bestselling author of very, very sexy (almost rude) historical romances. Phoebe changed her name from Weiss to Damereaux, established an affinity for floor-length velvet caftans and multiple strands of rope diamonds, and smiled very determinedly at the cameras. She was content with her press notices. When she went back to Union City, she took long, slow walks to the corner liquor store and waved at all the girls who thought she was fat and impossible in the eleventh grade.
I did not have Union City to fall back on. When things started going too well—when I found myself with a great apartment in a city where apartments had become extinct, when my book was doing well in a market so bad most people were having difficulty getting published, when I woke up every morning next to a good man at a time all the good ones were taken—I had no one to show off to. My friends from school thought writing was “irregular,” not exciting. Someone with my “connections” was supposed to get married and get serious about raising money for the American Cancer Society. I needed someone like Sarah English. I needed the hero worship. I needed the flattery. Most of all, I needed confirmation that I was living an unusual and enviable life. God only knows why.
Unfortunately, at the time I received Sarah’s first letter (and her manuscript), I wasn’t in the habit of being honest with myself. Even after I had given her battered Xerox to my agent, even after my agent had sold the book to Austin, Stoddard & Trapp, even as Sarah was getting off the 4:15 from New Haven, I still thought I was only trying to help. This is how much I was trying to help: Sarah was coming in from Holbrook, Connecticut, to deliver her contracts to Caroline Dooley at AST. I offered her a place to sleep in my apartment (since I have no furniture, I offered a sleeping bag and the floor). I called every romance writer I knew (and I knew them all) and arranged a dinner at Bogie’s. I went down to Putumayo and spent $110 on a fuzzy rose and white cardigan to wear with my charcoal gray Ralph Lauren box pleat (“Skidmore”) skirt. Even Nick thought I was being excessive.
Phoebe thought I was being ridiculous. Dinner at Bogie’s was both sense and nonsense. It was sense because Bogie’s was the Elaine’s of mystery writing, and Sarah’s novel was a romantic suspense (“in the tradition of Mary Stewart,” as she said, three times [each] in both her letter to me and her cover letter to the manuscript). It was nonsense because mystery writers are not very happy about romance writers. Mystery writers have a Cause. They write Literature, whether anybody understands that or not. Of course, anybody can join the Mystery Writers of America as an affiliate—MWA’s word for a fan—and a number of mystery writers spent the mystery lull and romance boom grinding out pseudonymous “contemporary love stories” for the category lines, but that didn’t make relations any easier. A hard-boiled private eye writer named Max Brady (five two, 130, horn-rims) once got into a fistfight with a romance writer named Verna Train outside the Hotel Pierre, either accidentally or deliberately witnessed by two reporters from the Post and a camera crew from “The CBS Evening News.” Verna won, but that hardly settled the argument.
By the time Sarah arrived in New York, relations between romance writers and mystery writers had disintegrated into a near-open declaration of war. The romance boom was over. The mystery boom was on. Romance lines were looking at 45 percent returns, then 65 percent returns. Simon and Schuster sold Silhouette to Harlequin. Editors made cautious suggestions that the market might—just might—be glutted. The real romance stars—people like Phoebe, and Amelia Samson, and rape-and-ravage-bodice-ripper Lydia Wentward—were eased to hardcover and “midlist.” A few hundred bad romance writers started turning out bad mystery novels—sometimes not so bad as the bad mystery novels turned out by bad mystery writers, which meant a lot of bad mystery writers were bumped out of the genre. What was worse, they were bumped by romantic suspense, a bastard genre, a female perversion, a she-serpent in the male Eden created fifty years ago by Chandler and Hammett. Good mystery writers spent a lot of time at the bar in Bogie’s, lamenting the New York Times Book Review’s lack of seriousness when reviewing crime fiction and suggesting various baroque methods for doing away with whoever had had the bright idea of rereleasing M. M. Kaye’s pre-Far Pavilions sentimentalized claptrap.
Under the circumstances, it might have been smarter to make reservations for neutral territory, but I couldn’t do it. Sarah English had written a romantic suspense novel because she liked romantic suspense novels and hadn’t been able to find enough of them. She was right on the money. I saw no reason to pick up the tab for cocktails at the Palm Court and pretend the dying aristocracy would last. I wanted Sarah to see and be seen where it would matter. Besides, I wasn’t writing romances myself anymore. I was doing true crime (my book on the Agenworth murder, just released, was a weak number fourteen on the Times bestseller list). I had an active membership in the MWA, a number of friendly acquaintances among the advocates of classic whodunits, and a growing relationship with Bogie’s owners, Billy and Karen Palmer. Also, Bogie’s serves very satisfying amounts of very good food at very good prices. Romance writer restaurants serve decorative amounts of suspicious food at ridiculous prices. Bogie’s was perfect.
Bogie’s was even more perfect after I finally saw Sarah English, New Author Extraordinaire. Sarah English was everything a New Yorker could ask for in a small-town hick come to the big city. She was peculiarly out of shape. After a few years in Manhattan most women either let themselves go entirely or develop unnatural relationships with Jane Fonda’s Workout Tape. Sarah English had done neither. She was thinner than she should have been for her height—eighty pounds on a five-foot frame—but she was soft, almost liquid, lumpy. She was actually wearing lime green polyester and plastic patent leather bow-ribboned shoes. She had her sandy blond hair tortured into a flip.
Phoebe squinted across the Grand Concourse of Grand Central Station—we were meeting Sarah “under the clock”—and nearly fainted dead away.
“Good God,” she said. “You can’t take that into Bogie’s.”
“Of course I can take her into Bogie’s,” I said. “Billy and Karen aren’t prejudiced.”
“I’m not talking about Billy and Karen.” She got her pearl-handled lorgnette out of her blue velvet string bag and peered into the middle distance like a society woman in a Marx Brothers movie. She shook her head. “Maybe it’s the wrong person,” she said. “Maybe—”
“She looks just like she sounds on the phone.”
She behaved just the way she sounded on the phone. Halfway across the concourse she stopped, stared at the clock over the information booth, and rubbed the top of her left foot against the stocking on her right leg. She bit her lip. She fumbled in her handba
g (imitation patent leather, lime green) and came up with a card.
“Maybe I ought to go get her,” I said.
Phoebe held me back. “This is the biggest indoor clock in the Western world,” she said, “and if that woman can’t see it—”
Sarah English had seen it. She had seen us, too. She let her face be taken over by an open-lipped smile (gap between her front teeth, gold filling in her right incisor), and started hurrying toward us. She stopped a foot and a half away.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, you look just like I wanted you to.”
Phoebe (Weiss) Damereaux has no patience for fools, liars, or idiots, but she is a kindhearted woman. She could no more have looked on Sarah English with indifference than she could have left a wounded cat in the road. Sarah English was so eager, so naive, and so very, painfully plain. I looked at her and knew she had spent the past thirty-five years in cramped, badly painted apartments, slowly turning into the town old maid. Sarah English was one of those not quite middle-aged ladies to whom nothing had ever happened and nothing ever would—except something had. We had happened to her. New York had happened to her. Austin, Stoddard & Trapp had happened to her. She was ugly and pitiable and under any other circumstances would have been impossible to bear. These were not, however, other circumstances. This was a success story.
Phoebe grabbed Sarah English’s hand and pumped it, hard.
“I’m Phoebe Damereaux,” she said. “This is—”
“Oh, I know,” Sarah English said. “This is Patience Campbell McKenna.” She said “Patience Campbell McKenna” the way devout Roman Catholics say “Blessed Virgin Mary.” I blushed. I hadn’t blushed since I was six.
“McKenna,” I said finally. “Everybody just calls me McKenna.”
“I call you Patience,” Phoebe said.
“Only when you’re drunk,” I said.
