“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.
“Well, I did want to ask a favor of you,” Sherman said. “I was wondering if you might help me get an interview with Julia Baxter.”
“The director?” said Jane. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t met her myself. But I can certainly try.”
“I would very much appreciate that,” Sherman said. “I’m a big fan. Unfortunately, it won’t be any mean feat. She abhors the press.”
“All we can do is try,” said Jane. “I have no idea when any of them are arriving.”
“Oh, a number of them are already here,” Sherman informed her. “They arrived last night.”
“And Julia Baxter?” asked Jane.
“Tomorrow,” Sherman said. He took a wallet from his pocket and removed several bills, laying them on the table beside his plate. “Now, alas, I have to go and pen a stimulating article about the garden club’s zinnia festival. If the excitement doesn’t kill me, I’ll see you anon.”
“I look forward to it,” said Jane. “And I’ll let you know if I can get a word with Julia Baxter.”
“Thank you, my dear. I appreciate anything you can do on my behalf.” Sherman walked a few steps, then turned back and approached the table. “By the way,” he said in a low voice. “I meant to tell you. Do you remember our friend Miranda Fleck?”
“Of course,” Jane said, grimacing. How could anyone forget the overbearing assistant professor of English at Meade College? Not only was Miranda rude, she was a Brontëite. She and Jane had butted heads at Walter’s most recent New Year’s Eve party, a confrontation that had ended with Jane giving Miranda the tiniest of bites and secreting her beneath a pile of coats. She hadn’t seen her since.
“Well,” said Sherman, his voice taking on an excited tone, “you may be interested to know that she won’t be returning to the college in the fall. It seems she was giving certain students superior grades in exchange for, shall we say, extra-credit assignments. And she preserved it all on film. Well, digital video. Apparently the footage was discovered when she took her laptop to the college’s IT department to have it upgraded.”
“Really?” Jane said. “I would never have believed her capable.”
“Yes,” Sherman said. “I understand she’s a very emotive actress. At any rate, she’s been let go.”
“I’m terribly sad to hear that,” Jane said. “Miranda added so much to the department.”
“Didn’t she though,” said Sherman. “I’m sure she’ll be missed by … someone.”
He turned and once more headed for the door, leaving Jane to finish her donut and coffee and marvel at the never-ending surprises of which human beings were capable. Imagine, Miranda Fleck a seductress.
“She certainly didn’t learn that from any Brontë novel,” Jane assured the donut as she popped the last bite in her mouth.
A sharp pain in her side caused her to flinch. For a moment she wondered if some foreign object in the donut had pricked her insides. Then the pain—now more of a cramp—came again, and she recognized it as a sign of hunger. Not for more food, but for blood.
Jane groaned. Wonderful, she thought with no small amount of irritation. Now I’m going to have to bite somebody.
She added some bills to the ones Sherman had left, made sure Rhonda saw them so that she could collect them, then hurriedly left the Rise-N-Shine. Her stomach had begun to make very unladylike sounds, and the cramps were growing stronger.
She got into her car and sat for a moment, thinking. She hated having to feed during the day. Not only did it involve greater risk, it interrupted her schedule. Not that you have anywhere to be, she reminded herself. You’re trying to avoid people, remember?
A tap on the glass startled her, and she gave a little shriek. Looking to her left, she saw Walter’s smiling face peering in at her. Behind him stood his mother, holding Lilith. Jane rolled the window down.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Walter said, giving her a peck on the cheek.
“What are you doing here?” asked Jane.
“Mother wanted pancakes,” Walter explained. “This is the best place for them.”
Jane glanced at Miriam, who met her gaze and smiled grimly. “I adore pancakes,” said Miriam.
“How nice,” Jane replied. Then she realized she would shortly be expected to explain her presence at the Rise-N-Shine. “I came for donuts,” she blurted, hoping he wouldn’t notice that there were none in the car. “For the film crew. I thought it would be a nice gesture.” She was speaking too quickly, but found she couldn’t stop. “Well, I should be going.”
“Hold on,” said Walter. “We were hoping you would spend the day with us.”
Jane hesitated. “The day?” she said. “As in all of it?”
Walter laughed. “That’s the idea.”
“Of course, if you have something better to do,” Miriam said, “we don’t want to inconvenience you.”
Hearing the tone in the woman’s voice, Jane knew she was being tested. She also sensed that Miriam wanted her to fail.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’d love to spend the day with you.”
Her stomach knotted and she gasped slightly.
“Are you all right?” Walter asked her.
“Fine,” Jane said as the hunger pains returned. “Just a little cramp.”