“So I called him last night, very teary, saying what a simply awful day I’d had, what with Grammy’s funeral. He’s tried several times to get together, so as I expected, he invited me down to his place. We were having drinks when I suggested a bath together might be relaxing. I tell you, the man practically started salivating. By the time he was in the tub all the Rohypnol was working like a charm.” Bibi smiled again. “Jews think they’re so smart, but that wasn’t such a swift move on his part, was it?”
Okay. Not only a psychopath but also a raging anti-Semite.
Bibi glanced at her watch. “Listen, while it’s been fun chatting, we have to wrap this up. You know, after getting mugged once, anybody in their right mind would have moved. I mean, here you are, getting mugged again, and this time you’re going to lose more than a watch.”
Bibi took a half step back, knife poised.
Now was the moment. Every muscle in Rannie’s right leg tensed. Her eyes stayed trained on the knife, which was why it came as a shock to find herself lurching forward, then sprawled on the ground, a ferocious pain radiating throughout her body from ground zero, above her left hip.
Bibi had kicked her.
Rannie was stunned, barely aware of the shards of broken glass embedded in both her palms.
“Don’t just lie there like a lump. Try to escape!” Bibi ordered.
She wants it to look like a struggle. Rannie groaned and, rocking in pain, clutched her belly. That was when she felt it, something inside the pouch on her fleece. A blue pencil? A blue pencil had come through for her once before. No. Something else. She grasped it anyway.
Bibi kicked her in the butt, more taunt than serious blow. “Get up!”
Rannie scrabbled to her knees. Her glasses had been knocked off. She was on all fours. When she gazed up, Bibi was coming toward her with the knife. Rannie reared back, ignoring pain so severe it put giving birth on par with menstrual cramps. Imagining Bibi in her black Burberry as a giant water bug, Rannie whipped out the pencil-thin metallic blue wand and sprayed for all she was worth.
A shriek. “You bitch!” Bibi was clutching her face with both hands. The vapor of peppery Mace made Rannie cough. Coughing was agony. The knife was gone, but without her glasses, it was useless looking for it.
Somehow Rannie struggled to her feet and lurched toward the sidewalk, hunched over like Quasimodo. On the street a man was getting out of a car. Rannie squinted. Tim? “Bibi’s in the lot,” Rannie rasped. It was no more than a whisper. Then she collapsed on the sidewalk.
Rannie heard rather than saw much of what happened next. Tim shouted—yes, unmistakably it was Tim—“Watch out!” There was the screeching of brakes, followed by a loud hollow thunk. Then Tim was at Rannie’s side, telling her not to move.
Cries came from a gathering crowd in the street.
“Holy shit!”
“Call an ambulance!”
“No rush. That’s one dead chica.”
Later in the ER, Rannie learned the car that hit Bibi belonged to F. Anthony Weld. How ironical.
Epilogue
It was a miracle. The mace.”
“Sure. If you say so.”
“Tim, I could never figure out how to turn the damn thing on and I never carried it around because I was scared if I did try to use it, I’d just end up spraying myself. And yet I got it to work on Bibi. Is there a patron saint of self-defense?”
“Yeah, but you don’t want him. He’s a favorite of the NRA.”
Hmmm. Then maybe she should think of the Mace in the little blue wand as akin to the oil in the lamp that kept on burning in the Hanukkah miracle. In a desperate situation, it delivered. Rannie was in bed, a very comfortable hospital bed, at Roosevelt Hospital. The story for family and friends went as follows: Rannie had collided with a bike rider while crossing against the light. “Totally my fault, I wasn’t paying attention,” Rannie confessed to all, then listened to responses that ranged from sympathetic:
Mary: “No wonder; you have too much on your mind, dear.”
To less than sympathetic:
Harriet: “I hope this teaches you a lesson! Next time—poo, poo—you might not be so lucky.”
That was true. She had been lucky, all things considered. Rannie’s internist Jim Lax informed her that she could have bled out—“exsanguinated” in MD parlance—almost instantly from a ruptured spleen. The day after laparoscopic surgery, she floated on a morphine-induced cloud.
“What’s morphine like, Ma?” Nate asked with too much interest.
“Horrid,” Rannie lied.
There was a lot to be said for drugs. There was a lot to be said against them.
The day before Rannie was discharged, Barbara Beauchamp Gaines’s funeral took place in the small side chapel of Saint Thomas Church. Did it count as getting away with murder, Rannie wondered, if you wound up dead too?
Daisy Satterthwaite did not attend. Instead, she and Mary hired a car to pay Rannie a visit at the hospital.
“What on earth was Barbara doing up in that neighborhood?” Mary wondered aloud, neglecting to inform Daisy that “that neighborhood” was also Rannie’s neighborhood.
“Probably a rendezvous with a dope pusher.”
“Daisy, that’s really uncalled for,” Mary tut-tutted.
The NYPD had botched a triple homicide, a fact that they preferred not to publicize. Rannie was okay with that, for the most part. She had no desire for another fifteen minutes of fame. Ret had no relatives; the only one grieving for her was Sister Dorothy. Tim promised to drive Rannie to the convent once she felt well enough in order to tell Sister Dorothy a version of the truth: Ret’s murderer was dead. Rannie planned to delete the part about Ret’s extortion racket. Larry’s mother was non compos mentis, incapable of understanding her son was dead, much less murdered. The publishing world would have no cause to question that his death had been anything other than suicide.
That left Ellen. In time, friends and acquaintances might become resigned to the awful truth that, in New York City, random attacks occurred and sometimes remained unsolved. But Ellen’s family. Her parents and brother. They’d wake up every day for the rest of their lives to face that tragedy. Knowing Ellen’s killer was dead couldn’t provide closure—nothing could; still, it would erase an unbearable question mark. Rannie had elicited a promise from Sergeant Grieg. He’d tell Ellen’s family, in person, the truth. It was then their choice whether to go public. A follow-up call from Rannie to the Donahoes would serve a dual purpose: to offer condolences and to ensure Grieg had abided by the deal.
Grieg had been right about one thing. Bibi did live at 302 East Seventy-Third Street. For the past three months, F. Anthony had been renting a studio apartment at 69 East Sixty-Ninth Street, where “his special friend” Bibi was a frequent overnight guest.
Weld claimed that, through Barbara Gaines, he’d received a quarter-million-dollar commission to create a copy of the St. Margaret painting for Kathleen Margaret Sullivan. All on the up-and-up. He knew nothing of Bibi’s side scheme. Yes, they were involved with each other but not seriously; he was picking Bibi up for a dinner date when she appeared out of nowhere in the street; there had been no time to avoid hitting her. As for 108th and Broadway, Bibi had provided the address, claiming she was visiting an old friend that afternoon. Was that the whole truth? Who knew.
On the day of Rannie’s discharge, Tim drove her to his house. She was to spend the next couple of weeks there, recuperating. Fine with her.
Nate, unsurprisingly, had proposed he stay at O’s.
“Nice try, buddy,” Rannie had told him.
“So, Tim? Once I’m all better, are you gonna send me packing?”
“Let’s take it one day at a time, Rannie. Okay? See where we go.”
They reached a stoplight. Suddenly Tim turned. “No. Who am I kidding? I need you. I want you with me . . . and if you’re under my roof, I can make sure you stay out of trouble.”
Rannie smiled. She didn’t say anything. Sh
e didn’t need to.
Driving up Broadway, they passed a Barnes & Noble store and Tim slowed down long enough for Rannie to catch sight of a big display window.
It was devoted to a single title: Portrait of a Lady.
P.S.
About the author
Meet Jane O’Connor
About the book
Dear Reader
Read on
A Sneak Peek of Jane O’Connor’s Previous Novel, Dangerous Admissions
More by Jane O’Connor
About the Author
Meet Jane O’Connor
JANE O’CONNOR, an editor at a major New York publishing house, has written more than seventy books for children, including the New York Times bestselling Fancy Nancy series. She is also the author of the adult mystery Dangerous Admissions.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
About the Book
Dear Reader
If my name rings a bell, perhaps it’s because you have a little girl in your life, a little girl who adores dressing up and being fancy in every way imaginable. I’m the author of the Fancy Nancy books and, no, I’m not wearing a boa and tiara as I write this.
My books for children are worlds apart—actually make that galaxies apart—from Almost True Confessions and an earlier mystery I wrote called Dangerous Admissions. And yet it strikes me that both Fancy Nancy and Rannie Bookman, the heroine of my “grown-up” books, do share one essential characteristic: they both love language. It’s in their DNA. Fancy Nancy never misses an opportunity to drop a five-dollar word into conversation, and Rannie, a freelance copy editor for a major New York publishing house, is passionate about proper grammar and word usage. (She’s passionate in other ways too.)
My characters’ obsessions with language probably should not come as a surprise to me—I’ve been writing stories since I was Nancy’s age; for decades I have been an editor at a New York publishing house; and on questionnaires requesting hobbies, all I ever come up with is “reading.”
Since you’ve bothered to look at this letter, there’s a fair chance that reading is one of your primary pleasures as well. Fingers crossed that you found your time with Rannie well spent.
Jane O’Connor
Read On
A Sneak Peek of Jane O’Connor’s Previous Novel, Dangerous Admissions
Mid-October, Tuesday morning
S.W.A.K. KILLER STRIKES AGAIN: PERV MURDERER STALKS UPPER WEST SIDE blared the headline of the Post lying on the front seat of the Jag.
Olivia Werner shuddered and fired up a Parliament. What a complete sicko, leaving lipstick kiss marks on his victims after slitting their throats. The only reason her parents had James chauffeuring her to school was because all the bodies had been found near Chaps. Olivia wasn’t complaining: She got an extra half hour to sleep, and more importantly she could smoke. You could hardly do that anywhere in this city anymore.
Accelerating through a yellow light, the car shot across Fifth Avenue and into the transverse at 85th Street. She’d make it to school in time to catch Mr. Tut before some other senior having a panic attack got to him.
Last night her mother had barged into her room while Olivia was sewing. As soon as Olivia said, “No, Mom, I don’t want to ‘brainstorm’ essay ideas now,” her mother dropped her eager, helpful smile and went on a rant about the Princeton application being due in two weeks.
“Mom, please. Face it. I’m not going to get in.”
Being a double legacy didn’t mean squat, not with her SAT scores and not when four brainiacs in the class were applying early. One of them—William Van Voorhees III—was claiming to be African-American because his grandfather came from Capetown. But that was Chaps kids for you, working every angle.
Olivia wanted to go to the Fashion Institute of Technology. Mr. Tutwiler understood. In fact, he “applauded her sense of direction.” Those were his exact words. “Fashion does matter,” he agreed. “The way we dress is the face we present to the world. With the exception of clothes, so little about our appearance is of our own choosing.”
If a man over eighty got it, how come her parents didn’t? At Werner family conferences, her mom’s standard reply was: “We didn’t send Olivia to Chaps for thirteen years so she’d end up in the Garment District.”
The car pulled to the curb at 103rd Street and Riverside Drive. Shouldering her backpack, Olivia hurried through the gates of Chapel School—Chaps—a glowering, turreted hulk the color of chewed gum. She banged on the front doors until the guard let her in.
It was eerily silent in the Great Hall, a massive space that soared thirty feet to a barrel-vaulted ceiling. But in another fifteen minutes black Town Cars would be lined up outside, two and three deep, and seven hundred Chapel School students would come swarming through the doors, Lower and Middle School kids in Chaps uniforms, Upper School kids in anything that marginally passed Dress Code.
Her dad had gone to Chaps, class of ’76, and complained about how the school had “changed,” which Olivia understood wasn’t about Chaps being coed or the way kids dressed. It was some sort of nasty code word for the fact that now the high school was twenty-five percent minority kids on scholarship. It killed her parents that practically all of them were guaranteed a spot at the Ivy of their choice.
From the Great Hall she crossed over to a neighboring brownstone known as the Annex. No need to check the wall directory; Olivia knew exactly where to find A. Lawrence Tutwiler, Director of College Admissions.
He was a Chapel School institution, the college advisor since way before either Chaps or any of the Ivies had gone coed. In a cover story last spring, New York Magazine had crowned him King Tut because he carried so much weight with college admissions offices. A lot of kids hated him. He didn’t care who your parents were or how much money they promised your first-choice college. He could spot an application essay written by a high-priced tutor from the opening sentence. Some shrink suddenly claimed you were ADD and needed to take the SATs untimed? Uh uh. Didn’t fly with Tut. It was one of the reasons Olivia liked him so much: Tut cut through the bullshit, judged you fair and square for what you’d accomplished at Chaps, and he let colleges know it.
In the Annex reception area, the new headmaster was talking to a couple whose little girl was sitting on the sofa, a half-naked Barbie on her lap. Obviously here to tour the school. Kindergarten had been so great; it was senior year that sucked. Olivia had loved school when she was little, everything about it—the school bus, lunch in the cafeteria, class trips, even the heinous maroon uniform. Her teachers had loved every single one of her art projects. Some were still displayed in the Lower School hallways.
As Olivia took the stairs to Tut’s office, she worked at a hangnail on her thumb until it started bleeding. The Princeton application was in her backpack, the only part still blank was the space for the personal essay. Tell us about something meaningful to you, it asked. Surprise us. Pick a topic that only you can write about.
“Your brother’s in rehab,” Lily G. had said. “Just say how you want to devote your life to crack babies or something.”
“She’s right,” Lily B. agreed. “Calm down.”
What the Lilys didn’t know (and never would) was that lately the only way she could calm down and get to sleep was by masturbating. Coming always left her feeling peaceful, almost with a sense of well-being—it worked way better than the Ambien her mother was quick to offer. So how about “Teenage Girls Jerk Off, Too!” for her Princeton essay? Couldn’t get more personal than that.
The door to Tut’s office was shut, which probably meant he wasn’t in. A floor below, she could hear the chirpy voice of the little girl, but on the other side of the office door, total silence like during an exam.
Sucking her bleeding cuticle, Olivia peeked through the little window in the door. Tut was there; she could make out the bulk of his head and shoulders through the wavy glass.
“Mr. Tut,” she cal
led tentatively. “It’s Olivia. I hate to bother you, but I’m kind of desperate.”
Tut was pretty deaf so Olivia rapped harder, then put her ear against the door. No, he wasn’t on the phone. “Hey, Mr. Tut. You okay?” Olivia waited three beats before a tickle of concern made her turn the knob.
Mr. Tut, in a yellow bow tie and blazer, was sitting at his desk, facing her like some well-behaved first grader waiting for the teacher to say, “All right, class. Please open your books to page sixty-seven.”
Olivia’s eyes traveled from the mammoth pile of college brochures and course catalogues on his desk to an overturned glass. It lay next to a bunch of soggy pink message slips all wadded together, the ink running. It was then that Olivia’s gaze shifted back to Mr. Tut himself.
Something was wrong. His body was slumped, and his head tilted back in a funny way. Olivia could see bristly white hairs on his neck, spots he’d missed shaving. His mouth was hanging open with dried spit caked in the corners. . . . And Tut’s skin was waxy, a little blue. Like skim milk. Still, her brain didn’t fully process what she was seeing until Olivia focused on Mr. Tut’s eyes—cloudy and yellow and open way too wide.
It was then that Olivia started screaming.
More by Jane O’Connor
DANGEROUS ADMISSIONS
Miranda “Rannie” Bookman—forty-three, divorced mother of two, with a recent love life consisting of a long string of embarrassingly brief encounters—is beginning to feel like a dangling participle: connected to nothing. Her career as a copyeditor is down the toilet (she makes one little slip—a missing “l” from the last word in the title of the Nancy Drew classic The Secret of the Old Clock—and suddenly she’s Publishing Enemy #1!), so she’s been forced to take any gig she can get. And that means giving tours at the Chapel School, the ultra-exclusive, ultra-expensive private academy that her children attend. Certainly not the most interesting of employments . . . at least until someone stumbles across the dead body of the Director of College Admissions.
Almost True Confessions Page 27
