Jane Goes Batty (9 page)

“There really would be no end of it.” That’s what the vampire with whom Jane had first discussed this matter had said. Her name was Olivia Rhodes. When Jane first met her she had been alive for almost five hundred years, having been turned toward the end of the Black Death. Since then she had watched scores of husbands and lovers die. Each time, she told Jane, she’d had to force herself not to turn the man. When Jane asked her why she didn’t turn just one, to spare herself the endless cycle of grief, Olivia had smiled and said, “Eventually we would resent each other for not dying.”

At the time Jane had not understood. Now, two hundred years later, she did. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that there must be exceptions. Surely there were people with whom one could comfortably share eternity. People like Lucy.
Or Walter
, she thought. Wasn’t it possible that they could continue to find each other interesting throughout centuries? Or would they get tired of telling the same stories again and again, until hearing a phrase such as “Remember that time in Pompeii” made them want to hurl themselves off cliffs?

She started the car. Sitting there in Lucy’s driveway being
gloomy wasn’t achieving anything. She could just as easily be miserable at home, where at least Jasper would sit beside her and she could stroke his ears. (Tom, being a cat, was useless as a source of comfort.) But thinking about
that
brought on another round of tears, as she imagined having to say goodbye to her pets. Animals could not be turned, so there was no question of creating a lifelong companion out of one of them. Jane had always thought this a great pity.

She pulled out of the driveway and headed for home. A few minutes later she found herself approaching Walter’s house. Although she’d intended to pass right by, she felt herself step lightly on the brake to slow the car. Then she was coming to a stop at the curb.

She turned the engine off and sat in the dark, looking at the windows of the house. The lights in the living room were still on, and behind the curtains Jane saw shadows moving. She imagined Walter and his mother sitting, having coffee, talking. Were they discussing her? Was Miriam telling Walter that she didn’t think Jane was suitable for him? Was Walter telling his mother that it was really none of her business?

She thought about trying to go invisible and sneaking up to the windows for a look. But that seemed slightly desperate. Yes, Miriam’s remark earlier in the evening had bothered Jane. But had she really meant something sinister by it? Or was she just being an overly protective mother?

You’re being silly
, Jane told herself.
You just need to give her a chance
.

Suddenly the light in the living room went out. Jane waited, and a moment later a light on the second floor came on. Jane pictured the layout of the house in her head and realized that she was looking at the window to the guest room.
Miriam’s room
, she thought.

She imagined Miriam getting ready for bed. Washing her face. Brushing her teeth. Putting on her favorite nightgown. Now she
would go to bed in her son’s house, a reversal of the years when she had tucked him into his bed in her house.

Jane thought of her own mother, and suddenly she was overcome with stirrings of affection for Miriam. Yes, they had gotten off to a bad start. But they could start again. Jane would just have to be a little more patient and understanding.
I can do that
, she told herself.

As she gazed up at Miriam’s window the curtains parted unexpectedly. Miriam stood there, holding Lilith in her arms as she looked out at the night. The moon, nearly full, cast its light over the lawn. Jane’s car was sitting in a pool of light, right in Miriam’s line of vision.

Jane ducked down, her heart pounding. Then she remembered: Miriam hadn’t seen her car. She would have no idea that it was Jane sitting there. Slowly Jane raised her head and peered over the edge of the window.

Miriam was staring at her. For a moment their eyes seemed to lock. Then Miriam closed the curtains. Her shadow remained visible for another minute. Then the light went out and Jane was left looking at a black space.

She started the car and drove away, feeling Miriam’s eyes on the back of her head.
Or maybe I’ll just stay out of her way
, she thought.
Just until she warms up to me a little. Or until she dies
.

“H
ERE YOU ARE
.”

Sherman Applebaum slid into the booth, sitting opposite Jane, who was holding a cup of coffee in her hands and staring at a half-eaten jelly donut sitting on a plate in front of her.

At seven o’clock in the morning the Rise-N-Shine coffee shop was not particularly crowded. The handful of customers were mostly delivery truck drivers, people getting off late shifts, and retired men who dreaded the long days of having nothing to do and came to spend an hour or two among people who would gladly trade places with them. Tired and preoccupied with their own lives, none of them paid any attention to Jane, which is precisely why she had chosen to come there.

Jane looked at Sherman, who even at this early hour was dressed in a gray flannel suit complete with waistcoat, pocket watch, and a perfectly knotted tie in a lovely lavender and black pattern that complemented his alert blue eyes. His gray hair was neatly combed, and the faint scent of bay rum surrounded him. He looked as if he was on his way to a garden party instead of sitting in a greasy spoon. And yet at the same time he seemed to fit in perfectly.

“What are you doing here?” Jane asked him.

“I might ask you the same question,” said Sherman.

A waitress approached the table before Jane could answer. “Morning, Sherm,” she said. “The usual?”

“Thank you, Rhonda,” said Sherman. “That would be lovely. And how did little Britney’s recital go last week?”

The waitress beamed. “Great,” she said. “I’ve got some pictures if you want to see them.”

“I would be delighted,” Sherman assured her.

As Rhonda walked away Jane said, “Little Britney’s recital?”

“Rhonda’s daughter,” Sherman explained. “She’s five. Her ballet class had a recital. If I’m not mistaken, Britney played the role of a daffodil.”

Jane took a sip of coffee. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

Sherman’s eyes twinkled. “My dear, when you’re the editor of the town’s second-largest newspaper, it’s your job to know
everything
. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I believe I already asked that question,” Jane reminded him.

Sherman nodded. “So you did,” he said. “I’ll tell you why. The people in this room know more about what happens in this town than the mayor, the council, and the police department combined. If you want to know what a place is
really
like, talk to the people who keep it running.”

Rhonda reappeared with a plate of scrambled eggs and two pieces of bacon, which she set in front of Sherman. “There you are, hon.” She fished several photographs out of her apron pocket and handed them to him. “Isn’t she a doll?” she said.

Sherman looked at the photos, murmuring his approval. “A doll she is,” he told Rhonda. “Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Danny got it all on video,” said Rhonda. “I can make you a copy if you want.”

“Please do,” Sherman said brightly. “That’s very kind.”

Rhonda left to attend to another customer, and Sherman turned his attention back to Jane. “I was wrong,” he said as he
sprinkled pepper on his eggs. “She was not a daffodil, she was a daisy.”

Jane laughed. “They really like you, don’t they?” she said.

Sherman set the pepper shaker down. “Who does?” he asked.

“Them,” said Jane, nodding at the people around them. “Everybody, really.”

Sherman picked up a piece of bacon, bit the end neatly off, and chewed. “I listen to them,” he said once he’d swallowed. “It’s amazing how much people like you when you listen. It’s also amazing the things they’ll
tell
you.”

“Now we’re getting to the reason you’re here,” said Jane.

Sherman took a bite of eggs, leaving Jane waiting until he’d eaten it. “I understand that Hollywood has invaded our little corner of the world.”

Jane sighed. “It would appear so,” she said.

“And am I right in guessing that the reason you’re here instead of at home or at your wonderful bookshop is because you’ve already tired of fame?” Sherman asked.

“You have no idea,” Jane told him. “I can’t get away from these people. They film
everything
. Well, one of them does. The girl—his sister—I quite like.”

“Shelby,” said Sherman. “Yes.”

“Is there anything you don’t know?” Jane asked.

“Oh, all sorts of things,” said Sherman, wiping his fingertips on a napkin. “Brian George’s real identity, for instance.”

Jane, who was about to take another sip of coffee, paused with the cup just short of her lips. “Real identity?” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Yes,” Sherman replied. “It’s the oddest thing. For some time now I’ve wanted to do a series of profiles on Brakeston personalities. Of course you are on my list, but I know how busy you are at the moment, so I thought I would begin with Mr. George.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Jane.

“I know about his books, of course,” Sherman said.

“Book,” Jane said, correcting him. “There’s just the one.”

Sherman smiled. “Of course,” he agreed. “Under
that
name. But then there are the Penelope Wentz novels, which I understand are quite successful.”

“They are,” said Jane.

“Yet supposedly the writer of those books is a man named Tavish Osborn,” Sherman continued.

He opened a briefcase that had heretofore gone unnoticed by Jane and removed from it a magazine, which he opened and placed on the table. Looking at it, Jane saw a photograph taken at the previous year’s Romance Writers’ Guild conference. In it a beaming Byron stood between novelist Chiara Carrington and Rebecca Little, the editor of
Romance
magazine. A tiny bit of Jane’s left arm was visible to Rebecca’s right, but the rest of her had been cropped out.

“Brian George
is
Tavish Osborn,” Jane explained. “Rather, Tavish Osborn is Brian George. Tavish—Mr. Osborn—adopted the name Brian George when he wrote
Winter Comes Slowly
, as he didn’t think a work of serious poetry would be well received by someone known for writing romances.”

“But he
wasn’t
known,” Sherman said. “That’s the point. Nobody knew Penelope Wentz was a man, so Tavish Osborn could have gone right on hiding in plain sight. So why the nom de plume
de plume
, so to speak?”

“I don’t know, really,” said Jane. “Why don’t you ask him?”

“I will,” Sherman said, putting the magazine away. “Sometimes, however, it’s better
not
to go to the source first.”

“What made you think I might know anything?” Jane asked.

Sherman poked at the remaining eggs with his fork. “It’s no secret that you’re friends,” he said. “I thought that perhaps you might be able to shed some light on the subject.” He hesitated. “I just find it peculiar that trying to find out anything about either Brian George
or
Tavish Osborn leads to nothing but dead ends.”

“Dead ends?” Jane repeated.

Sherman nodded. “It’s as if neither of them existed prior to the publication of Mr. George’s novel.”

Jane felt that she might be sick. What was Sherman suggesting? She’d never known him to be anything but amiable. Now, though, she almost felt as if she—or at any rate Byron—were being threatened in some manner.

“Well, as I said, I know very little about his past,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But I hardly think there’s anything sinister hidden there.” She drank some coffee and laughed, managing to choke instead.

“Oh, I don’t suspect there is,” said Sherman, handing her a napkin. “The old newshound in me can’t help but wonder, though. People keep the strangest secrets. You weren’t living here then, so you wouldn’t know, but in ’83 a fellow by the name of Clyde Dibble dropped dead from a heart attack while shoveling his driveway. A real nice guy, Clyde was. Ran a little grocery store, coached Little League for a bunch of years, was a deacon at the Presbyterian church. When his kids came to clean out the house they found a locked trunk in the attic. When they got it open they found it was full of pictures of a whole lot of the lady neighbors in their underpants. Turns out Clyde liked to roam around at night looking in windows and taking snapshots of what he saw.”

“Oh my,” Jane said. “Not very neighborly of him, was it?”

“Not very, no,” said Sherman. “Anyway, you can see what I mean about never knowing what people are really like. I guess it’s become an occupational hazard with me.”

“And just what secrets are in
your
attic?” Jane asked, leaning forward.

Sherman grinned. “Oh, terrible things,” he said. “Just terrible.”

They both laughed, although Jane couldn’t help but sense a little uneasiness in both their voices. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about?” she said. She had a feeling it wasn’t.