Janie Face to Face (22 page)

Stephen thought, She really is possible.

He had not expected Hannah to pull herself together in middle age. Hannah would not have become a good woman with a decent life. He had pictured her melting into her own evil, like the wicked witch in
The Wizard of Oz
.

Now, at the realization that the possible Hannah was possible, Stephen had trouble filling his lungs. He did not want to be near the woman. He wanted to have bullet- and fist-proof glass between him and her, because if she was Hannah, he did not want to damage her. He wanted a trial. He wanted the whole thing—exposure of every ugly vicious act of her ugly vicious life.

No, he reminded himself. What I want is for my sister to have a life without that book title around. “Ma’am?” he said.

The woman took the cigarette out of her mouth. She stabbed it into a metal coffee can at her door filled with sand and butts. “I’m not buying anything. Don’t think you can rip me off either.”

She had a heavy Brooklyn accent.

Hannah had grown up in Connecticut. Frank and Miranda
had excellent diction, to the point of sounding pseudo-British.

The aura of Hannah fell away and Stephen saw only a weary old woman, much too old to be Hannah Javensen. Although life could have aged her an extra decade or two.

“We’re not selling anything,” he said. “We’re sorry to bother you. We’re trying to find a cheap place to rent.”

“Ain’t nothin’ cheap in this town.”

“We’re finding that out. Sounds as if you moved here from New York. Me too,” he fibbed. “What part of New York?”

She softened. “Fort Greene, honey.”

“You miss it?”

“Sure. This dump? Compared to home? But I like the mountains.”

There were beautiful mountains outside Boulder. But the view this woman had was peeling paint and a row of garbage cans.

Stephen was suddenly deeply sorry for her. “Have you ever run into a woman named Tiffany Spratt? She was looking for apartments around here.”

The woman shook her head and lit another cigarette.

We’re not going to find Hannah, thought Stephen. These three names really are just bait, designed by Calvin Vinesett. No point rearranging my workweek to find the third name.

Janie did not think of Facebook when she thought of spreading the news, because she never posted. But Sarah-Charlotte, Reeve, Adair, Eve, Reeve’s sister Lizzie, and everybody else posted the new wedding date: June 3.

Sarah-Charlotte telephoned everybody who had planned to fly in so they could change their tickets. She reported back to Janie. “Some people can’t come after all, and they’re sad—but other people
can
come after all, and they’re tickled. So it’s going to work out fine. We had eleven people for our van and we still do, it’s just a different eleven. Plus several people are driving separately and a few are flying straight into Newark. I’m still working on a bridal shower. What day can you be up here?”

“I don’t think there’s any day,” said Janie regretfully.

“How about a shower down there? Maybe Jodie and I can cohost.”

“But already there isn’t time. You’re arriving here that Friday for the rehearsal, Sarah-Charlotte. You don’t want to haul back and forth for a shower too.”

“Of course I do. But tell me about the reception. How many people are coming?”

“We’re not going to know till they get here. Dad says he’s buying enough hamburger patties and hot dogs for a couple hundred and he can just freeze them if we only have twenty-five. And Mom and two of her neighbors are going to make vats of potato salad and macaroni salad and my aunt and uncle are going to buy a ton of shrimp and then we’ll pack the freezer with ice cream to go with the cake. It’ll be your basic picnic, only with a bride.”

Sarah-Charlotte did not approve. A wedding should be your basic formal sit-down dinner at a country club, with linens, silver, flowers, favors, and dinner-jacket-clad waiters. But she wouldn’t let her best friend down. “I like the theme,” she said. “A wedding that starts by leaping over security-line
ropes should be frantic, with people bringing their own bags of chips and lugging their own folding chairs.”

Janie giggled. “It won’t be that crazy. But just picking people up at the airport on that Friday is going to take the whole family and half the neighbors.”

Back home in New Jersey, Brendan was in a terrible mood. His mother had just told him about that guy Michael Hastings, and how he stalked Janie and tried to use her. Brendan wanted to chain the guy to the bumper of a truck and drive down the thruway for a hundred miles. He couldn’t believe his family wasn’t going after this Michael creep. “No,” said his mother, “I want to leave it alone.”

That’s the trouble with this world, thought Brendan. We leave things alone.

He called Stephen, who was excellent at getting mad and would share his mood to perfection. “When are you getting here anyway?” Brendan demanded. “It’s very tiring being surrounded by wedding planners.”

“I’m flying in Friday night. I actually won’t get there till after the rehearsal. My flight doesn’t even land until eleven p.m. Mom wanted me earlier but I couldn’t pull it off.”

“You don’t have to try on a tux?”

“Nope. I emailed the rental store. They have my size on file from my senior prom. Remember I went without a date and it was the worst evening of my life?”

Brendan did not remember. He had spent his life thinking solely of himself.

“Bren,” said Stephen, “I talked to the researcher. Not the
same one you talked to. Calvin Vinesett has at least three researchers. The one who lied to Janie, the one you met, and the one out here. I agreed to meet the guy because he had a list of three possible Hannahs in Boulder.”

What was a possible Hannah? wondered Brendan.

“Kathleen stole the list,” said Stephen.

“She stole it? I like that in a person,” said Brendan. “Is she coming to the wedding too?”

“Don’t change the subject. The researcher insisted that the three names were just bait to get me to talk. ‘Bait’ is a strange word, Bren. I keep asking myself, what fish does Calvin Vinesett expect to catch?”

“A bestseller,” said Brendan.

“Yeah, but I’m wondering if somebody else is behind the whole project. One of us.”

“I’m wondering the same thing. Can’t be Janie. All she wants is to marry Reeve and live happily ever after. Can’t be Jodie. All she wants is to save the world. Can’t be you. All you want is to drill down inside the earth.”

“And it can’t be the Johnsons. Mr. Johnson can’t even steer a pencil and Mrs. Johnson would be the worst hurt in a story about the criminal her daughter became. But Brendan, could it be Brian? Brian’s a wonderful writer. He can’t even choose a major at college, he’s so eager to study everything and write about everything and learn everything. He’s your twin. You know him. You think Brian could have something to do with this?”

Now Brendan wanted to chain Stephen to the truck as well. The methods behind this book were slimy and underhanded.
“Brian is a good person,” said Brendan stiffly. “Listen, I have to go.”

“Okay, but one last thought,” said Stephen. “Could it be Mom or Dad behind this? They want Hannah to get hers.”

Brendan remembered something Stephen had probably never known, because Stephen had not been back East in a few years. Brendan wouldn’t have known either, except her schedule had forced him to hang around waiting to be picked up after practice. Their mother had taken a creative writing class last year.

Brendan couldn’t say it out loud. “See you Friday at the airport,” he said to his brother. Then he checked Calvin Vinesett’s website.

Contact the author!
read a little smile button. Brendan clicked. It gave an email address and a publisher’s street address. Brendan was not a great communicator. It made him tired to think of composing a message for email or paper. He clicked on
Books
and read some jacket copy. Under the author photo on one of the book jackets was a single line informing him that Calvin Vinesett lived in New York City and Deer Isle, Maine.

Brendan loved to time himself using the Web. Sixteen seconds to find Calvin Vinesett listed in the Manhattan white pages.

In the morning, all the girls were going wedding gown shopping.

Brendan had not known there was such a thing, but now that he did, he planned to be far away and safe. He told his mother he was going into the city for the day to meet friends.

But Brendan was not meeting anybody he expected to like.

He had phoned his own researcher, thinking maybe he could learn something about Michael/Mick, but the guy hadn’t even known there were other researchers. “I bought you three expensive dinners!” he yelled at Brendan. “And Calvin Vinesett won’t even pay me. He won’t even answer my emails!”

Nothing about this book made sense. Not the frightening chapter about Frank and Miranda. Not the stalking of Janie. Not the title. And certainly not refusing to answer emails from your own researcher.

Brendan yelled, “Jodie! You know how to reach Janie’s roommate?”

“Eve?”

This research stuff was a snap. He hadn’t known the girl’s name and Jodie gave it to him right off. “Yup. Eve. You got her phone number?”

“What do you want to call Eve for?” Jodie yelled back.

“Ideas for wedding gifts,” yelled Brendan, who had not previously considered the possibility of getting his sister a present.

“My cell phone’s on the kitchen table!” yelled Jodie. “She’s on my contact list.”

“What’s her last name?”

“Janie says she doesn’t use it. She’s just Eve.”

Okay, just Eve, thought Brendan. Let’s talk.

He used his own cell. “Is this Eve? This is Janie’s brother Brendan.”

“Oh, hi, Brendan! I can’t wait to meet you and everybody else and see Reeve. I’ve never even met Reeve! It’s such a kick!
Janie says at the bridal mall she’s just going to pick up dresses for all the bridesmaids at one time, right off the rack, and the day of the wedding we just hope for the best! I know it will be the best. We’re all so excited!”

“Yeah, me too. Listen. I wanna corner that creep. The Michael guy.”

“Good idea. Just remember you can’t get in any trouble yourself because the wedding is too soon and you can’t be in jail or anything.”

“You mean I can’t chain him to the bumper of my truck and drag him through the city?”

“What he deserves,” agreed Eve. “No. You can only scold him from a distance.”

“Where’s he live?”

“East Village. Hang on. I’ll get the address. I always thought he was shifty. Want me to come along? I have a few things to say to him too.”

“No, but if you have a photo, send it to my cell so I can identify him.”

“Done,” said Eve.

New York City was an easy trip from New Jersey. Before it was light the next morning, Brendan took the earliest available commuter bus. Manhattan never failed to excite him. There just was no place on earth like it. Even at dawn, it was hopping. His heart leapt and he was grinning.

It was seven-thirty when he found Michael Hastings’s building on a slightly iffy block. Rents were high, according to the ads in real estate agents’ windows, but not killer high.

Eve didn’t think Michael was a college student. She thought he had a job somewhere and had lied about that, too. Jobs usually involved leaving your apartment in the morning. Brendan hoped that a man who lived in Manhattan also worked in Manhattan, and did not need to leave home before seven-thirty. A guess based on nothing, since Michael could work nights, or not at all, or be back home in Iowa or wherever he came from. Eve had forwarded the photograph Janie had sent to Sarah-Charlotte, and which Sarah-Charlotte sent on to Eve. It turned out that Sarah-Charlotte and Eve had had several Janie conferences over the last two years, which Brendan thought was a little iffy, girlfriend-wise, but then who understood girls?

Michael/Mick looked like the kind of guy they cast in movies as the thin thoughtful type. No muscle, no brawn, no guts. But sensitive.

Brendan despised that in a person.

One hour and eighteen minutes later, Michael/Mick walked out of his building.

Brendan fell into step. Brendan was gratifyingly taller and stronger. The guy moved away from him. Brendan sidestepped right along. The guy glared. Brendan glared back. “So I’m Janie Johnson’s brother,” he said. “You and I need to have a talk.”

Michael brushed his pretty dark hair off his pretty forehead. “I’m busy. I have to go to work.”

Brendan shouldered him against a building. “You’re going to be late.”

“You can’t stop me from going to work!”

“I’d love to stop you. Or we could get a cup of coffee and you can talk.” The roughness in Brendan’s voice was no act. His smile began to shiver and he could feel himself losing control. He reminded himself of Eve’s warning.

“Fine,” said Michael nervously. “Whatever.” New York was packed with diners and coffee shops. Michael darted into one. He perched on the outer edge of a booth and Brendan sat opposite him.

Brendan ordered bacon, three eggs over easy, rye toast, and potatoes.

Michael ordered coffee. He added sweetener. His hand shook.

“You stalked my sister,” said Brendan. He had not expected to feel such anger that somebody had hurt his sister. Especially this sister. “Start with your reasons. How did you hook up with Calvin Vinesett? Did Calvin Vinesett tell you to stalk my sister?”

“Look,” said Michael. “Calvin Vinesett just told me that Jane never gave interviews and I had to think of some other way to get information.”

Never, not once, had Brendan heard anybody call his sister Jane. It was creepy, as if they were talking about somebody else. “He told you this by phone?” asked Brendan.

New York diners had the fastest service in the world. The waitress put his plate in front of him. Brendan dug in.

“We’ve never talked,” said Michael. “Just emailed. He’s reclusive.”

“The guy lives right here. How come you didn’t just get together?”

“He’s got a lot of health problems and doesn’t get out much and that’s why he hires researchers. He doesn’t want that known because his readers expect him to be on site.”

Brendan had leafed through, but not read, one of Calvin Vinesett’s bestsellers. The guy used the first person a lot (“I met her a total of seventeen times at the jail”). That was all lies too? “I need to know about every email Calvin Vinesett sent you and every email you sent him.”