Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  Smalley preferred dealing with people. Witnesses. Suspects. Hearing about their lives, habits, hopes, dreams, foibles, until it became obvious who had committed the crime. He planned to visit the crime scene with Glaser this morning. He liked to enter the building, ride the elevator, walk the halls, try the stairs, just to get a feel for what the perp would have been faced with—the thousand petty obstacles to crime—a dog walker, a feuding couple, a nosy neighbor, a surveillance camera. Most criminals think they are smarter than the cops and won’t get caught. Rarely was one actually smart enough, although he had a feeling that this woman might be. Of course, it could be a man with serious issues about his sexual identity. But Smalley didn’t think so. In either event, this murderer didn’t act on passion in the normal sense. She was methodical and cool—unlikely to make the sort of mistakes a criminal makes when blinded by hatred or revenge. But then, even the smart ones are done in finally by their arrogance. They think they can control everything and so take more and more chances. But eventually they screw up. They all do.

  The break-in at Jane Larson’s office might be such a blunder. He wondered how anyone could force a door on a fairly busy side street in Manhattan in the middle of the day. But once he had examined the door closely, he found the frame was wooden and very old. A heavy screwdriver could have popped it open in seconds, which meant that the person who had done it had seen that door previously—a client perhaps, or a member of the WPW board. They had met in there while Martha Larson was alive. It narrowed the field of suspects, certainly.

  He leaned forward quickly again. He had heard something downstairs, but realized it was just his wife opening the front door. Getting the paper? It seemed late for that.

  He reclined again in the chair and stared out the window at the small rectangle of land that constituted their back yard, identical in size to the backyards on either side. Rows of colorful flowers were neatly planted along the edges of theirs, chosen by Emily because they thrived in the dim light. At the center of the rectangle, in the spot that got the most sun, grew a miniscule but impeccably tended vegetable garden.

  Suddenly, she screamed.

  It was one loud, short scream followed by silence. Then, “Andrew! Andrew!” Loud enough for him to hear, but under control. She was not the type to get hysterical.

  He raced down the stairs, two at a time. He had grabbed his gun, still in its holster, but never removed it. He could see his wife almost immediately, standing sideways in the doorway, her hands clasped under her chin, her forearms pressed against the front of her robe, her gaze first fixed on him; and then, as he approached, shifting to the object on the top step. She had started to remove the brown butcher paper wrapped around it. Then he saw for himself what he had expected to find, even as his wife’s scream had echoed through the small house and he had started down the stairs.

  Diana had left him a little present.

  He took out his phone to call for a forensics team when two men opened his front gate and walked toward him, the first man with some sort of recording device in his hand and the second with a camera over his shoulder.

  “Detective Smalley?” the first man said. “Scott Harper of The Portal. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jane awoke to the smells of fresh coffee brewing and muffins baking. She had slept more soundly than she could remember in recent memory, and credited the afternoon of physical labor and perhaps the wine for that. At only one point had her sleep been broken, and she couldn’t be sure if she had dreamed even that minor interruption: a car accelerating along the road bordering the property. Had it turned around in the driveway also? Or was it simply the creaking of the house that had pulled her back to momentary wakefulness?

  Parts of the evening before also seemed as distant as a dream. Perhaps again because of the wine and fatigue, she had felt no hesitation as she wrapped her arm around the naked shoulders of her friend, the side of her body touching Maggie’s magically warm skin, breast against breast, as she had held and comforted her. And was it imagination that her nipple had stiffened and a pulse of desire passed through her like a shock wave? If Maggie had not gotten up and started to swim back, what might have happened out there on the pond? She had never touched a woman in a sexual way before. But then again, she had never felt that surge of desire before either.

  In the light of day, she felt a sense of relief that it had gone no further. Maggie was a friend—someone she felt very close to as a friend. Certainly, Maggie showed no sign that she felt that something more or different had happened between them—that they had been close to a precipice. On the contrary, with the new schedule for Diana, Maggie had said over breakfast that she wanted to leave earlier than planned because she had to start work on the new chapters of her book. There were notes that she needed to look at back at her apartment.

  “That’s fine,” Jane had said. “I was just hoping to have another swim in your pond.”

  She watched Maggie as she made the comment to see if there was any reaction. There wasn’t.

  “Come back next weekend,” Maggie said simply. “We’ll leave Friday night and drive back late on Sunday. Of course, if David comes you’ll need to bring your bathing suit.”

  Jane laughed.

  “Yes, I would say so. Although he would probably enjoy being naked with two women.”

  Jane had already decided not to mention to David even the fact that they had taken a swim. He would no doubt make some comment that would get her very angry.

  * * * *

  They were in the car, about halfway back to New York, when the news came over the radio about Smalley. Scott Harper had wasted no time letting The Portal and Harry Lesdock know about his scoop. The broadcasts, in turn, caused a flurry of calls that occupied Jane as Maggie drove. Earlier that morning, whether by coincidence or not, Ellen had posted on the Iphigenia Gallery website an invitation to Diana to attend the exhibit’s opening night on the following Thursday. Soon afterward, Sheila sent out an e-mail to the Board saying that any invitation to a WPW event should come from WPW itself. That was met by Ellen’s demand to know if the e-mail expressed Sheila’s own opinion or that of Judith Frazier. Two other board members—Jena and Charmaine—sided with Ellen. Charmaine pointed out that it was Ellen’s gallery and she could issue any invitation she wanted. Sheila responded that she was extremely unhappy with the way the WPW exhibit was being used, and suggested that she might join Judith on the night of the exhibit to tell the invitees what WPW really represented. Charmaine answered that Sheila should go fuck herself, and maybe the activity would increase circulation to her atrophying brain.

  Maggie laughed.

  “I agree that Sheila’s making way too much of this,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “I think a little bit of controversy will help, not hurt, the exhibit. And I think that in the end your book and Harry Lesdock will be the big winners. But I keep wondering who’s stirring the pot here? Who’s riling everyone up?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Maggie said, looking over briefly at Jane and then back again to the road. “Diana is.”

  * * * *

  Around noon, Maggie turned the corner onto 92nd Street and pulled into a parking space in front of Jane’s apartment building.

  “I hope you’ll come up,” Jane said. “I’ll fix you lunch.”

  Maggie had gotten out of the car to open the trunk and remove Jane’s bag.

  “I’ll take you out to lunch,” Maggie replied. “I think I sort of owe you for all you’ve done for me the last few days.”

  As they approached the building, Maggie looked up at the third floor window and saw a face quickly pull away and the curtain fall back into place.

  “I think your man David may be home,” she said. “You are on the third floor, right? That’s where I remember meeting with Martha years ago.”

  “I guess it is David then,” Jane said with a sigh. “The very charming David Hancock, who was supposed to be busy all we
ekend—so busy, he couldn’t come along to your house, even though he promised he would.”

  As they entered the foyer, they could hear a door close and footsteps going upwards. Then another door opened and shut.

  “The roof is open to tenants,” Jane said. “Some sit out there in the middle of the day to catch a few rays of sun. A few even hang laundry in good weather.”

  Maggie made a face.

  “I think I prefer my backyard.”

  “Definitely.”

  As they walked up the last flight, they could hear a clatter from inside the apartment. When Jane opened the front door, the living room was in disarray. David called out from the bedroom.

  “Jane? Is that you?”

  He came into the doorway and stood there for a moment, leaning against the jamb. His hair was slightly mussed, his face was unshaven, and he wore a pair of chinos without either a shirt or socks. He was very appealing, and he knew it.

  “Maggie Edwards,” he said, crossing the room with his hand extended before him, a friendly smile on his face. His chest had been well muscled once. His stomach was starting to thicken as well. “A pleasure to meet you, finally. Sorry for the mess. I was just cleaning the place up.” He pointed to a vacuum cleaner that stood in the middle of the living room. The door to the closet where it was usually kept was still open. “I was going to surprise you, Babe,” he said to Jane, kissing her gently on the lips. “I was just making the bed, too. I already changed the sheets.”

  “Maybe we should go away and wait for you to finish,” Jane said. “I wouldn’t want to get in your way. God knows this is an event.” There was a light, teasing quality to her voice. “Maggie and I could hang out on the roof for a while. She wanted to see the asphalt beach.”

  “The roof?” David said incredulously. “With all the pigeon shit? Didn’t you hear some weirdo is feeding them again? The whole surface is practically painted white. Why don’t you go to Starbucks instead and have a coffee and a sandwich? I’m buying.”

  He was smiling broadly, full of confidence as he reached into his pocket for some cash. Jane walked past him as though he were not there.

  “Come and see the bedroom, Maggie,” Jane said over her shoulder.

  David gave Maggie a look as if to say that Jane’s thoughts and motivations were always a pleasant mystery to him. They both followed her into the bedroom, where Jane stood at the closet, holding the sheets that David had apparently just removed from the bed.

  “I’ll do that, Babe,” David said stepping forward with his arms extended to take them. “I was just going to bring those to the laundry.”

  “I’m sure you were, David,” Jane said, bringing the sheets up to her face and inhaling through her nose. “I see you’re wearing a new scent these days. Chloe, right? Expensive stuff, David. But a trifle effeminate, no?”

  David’s face suddenly became a dull mask. He wet his lips with his tongue.

  “Jane, I can explain that—”

  “I’m sure you can, David.” She turned to Maggie. “I may not have mentioned it, but David is very good at explaining things. Late nights. Unexpected absences. Wait until you hear him explain why there’s a used condom wrapper in the sheets.”

  “Jane, listen to me, will you?”

  Maggie backed away out of the doorway. Jane spread one of the sheets on the floor. Then she walked over to the closet, pulling out David’s clothes and dumping them on the sheet. She repeated the process with the clothes he had in the bureau.

  “Put on a shirt and shoes, David. Most of your things can fit in here. I’ll ship the rest to Sebastian’s place. Unless you have another address where you can stay.”

  Jane pulled the four corners of the sheet together and tied them, creating a large bag of clothes.

  “Jane, I’m not doing that,” David said. His entire pose had changed. His shoulders were slumped forward. His smile had vanished. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  “Then it’s going out the window,” Jane replied, starting to drag it across the room.

  “Jane, come on. Don’t be so unreasonable.”

  “Are you going to make me go up to the roof, too, David, and find your new girlfriend?” she asked. “I don’t want to demean myself that way.”

  “But, Jane—”

  “You’re wasting my time,” she said. “And yours.”

  Without another word, David pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of loafers.

  Jane stayed at the window until he had dragged the sheet full of clothes down to the street and hailed a cab. She felt a wave of emotion rise in her but controlled it, then turned away.

  She went into the kitchen, where she found Maggie looking for something in the cupboard.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” Jane said. “Or wine? Can I make you lunch?”

  Something in the words triggered it. Jane started crying and found herself unable to stop. Maggie went over to her and put her arms around her to comfort her, but the tears kept coming.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Back at her apartment later in the afternoon, Maggie sat at her desk. The hum of the laptop was the only sound in the room. It had taken her several minutes to feel able to concentrate on the writing but not for the usual reason.

  Things seemed to be happening very quickly and she needed time to bring them into perspective. Just three days earlier, she had sworn that she would never write Staying There. Now gradually, so gradually as to be imperceptible, the belief was growing inside her that perhaps it was not impossible after all—perhaps she would be able to write something other than Diana again.

  Images crowded her mind now—images and ideas. Women in a house in the country, sitting on a porch as daylight wanes; talking, laughing, the murmur of their voices drifting across the grass, the hills. Women walking together in the darkness, chatting easily. One woman dives from a platform out over the water. The others draw in their breath at the sheer beauty of the moment when her body is extended in midair, illumined by the moon, muscles taut from the tip of her fingers to her toes before she disappears beneath the surface.

  Maggie had wanted to tell Jane how beautiful she looked but feared she would be misunderstood. It wasn’t the time. It might never be the time.

  And then when David had left this morning and Jane cried, Maggie had held her and whispered over and over, for lack of better words, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  After a few minutes, Jane had composed herself again, drying her eyes, shrugging off the pain that contorted her face.

  “I shouldn’t be making such a big deal of it. I suspected for a while that David was cheating on me and didn’t confront him. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I shouldn’t have made you suffer through it.”

  “Oh, don’t think that, please,” Maggie had said. “I’m glad to be here. If it helped you, I mean.”

  Jane turned to her, a look of mild amusement on her face.

  “Of course it helped me. Just being away with you this weekend helped me. Last night on the pond, with that glorious, romantic moon, I realized I didn’t miss David at all. And that it was time to move on. And that something better was waiting for me. Something far more perfect, if only I would reach for it.” Jane hesitated. “Have you ever felt that way, Maggie?”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, quietly. “But long ago. So long ago, I had almost forgotten the feeling until you described it.”

  That was the second moment when she’d had the chance to share her secret with Jane, and the second time she’d held back. Why? If she didn’t tell her, they were doomed. All the writing in the world wouldn’t matter then. She would have to find a way. But when?

  Chapter Three

  ~ Diana ~

  By

  Maggie Edwards

  There was a time when I thought that perhaps it was all my fault.

  Picture it this way for a moment. Two young men—good friends, Donnie and Jake—are driving north to spend the weekend at an uncle’s cabin in the woods. It is
a warm spring day that has already gotten their young blood flowing when they see a woman with a small knapsack hitchhiking at the side of the road. She is not dressed suggestively, but she is very pretty, with long blond hair. They notice that she does not hesitate even for the briefest of moments when they stop and open the door of their van to her.

  Because she is several years older, she has an aura of experience and mystery that is itself attractive. Before long, she is telling them of her travels across the country, of hitchhiking alone and with companions met along the way; going where the rides took her, floating like a balloon in the wind, without a conscious plan; seeking shelter from drenching rains beneath the Interstates; dodging state troopers on the highways outside of Denver and suspicious farmers in Illinois; sharing the back of a van no bigger than this one with eight hitchhikers and their packs, all heading north to San Francisco on Route 1; spending nights in a sleeping bag beneath the stars; befriending a mystic who drove her high into the Sierra Nevada mountains and guided her into a reverie of meditation and fasting and self-denial, until friends, acquaintances and strangers persuaded her to move on once again.

  And in the same spirit of good will, possessed of the strange intimacy that strangers sometimes share, she tells them of that morning's angry departure, of her conscious decision not to inform her lover where she was going and not to call ahead either. Why? She doesn’t know why. Because she wants a new adventure?

  Did they see it as an invitation?

  Did they think that she hoped they would take the hint and find a secluded spot and tumble to the ground with her in the soft grass, lift her skirt and kiss her breasts and just follow their blessed instincts, fucking her like young animals in the spring?