Never Tell a Lie Page 20

  But how…? Ivy knew the answer to that, too.

  July 14. A year and a half ago. Ivy remembered that hot, humid summer morning she’d spent lying on the table in the emergency room at Neponset Hospital and watching a nurse carry away the placenta and the tiny corpse that would have been Ivy and David’s first-born child. It had gone to the hospital lab for analysis—a lab where Melinda worked.

  Anger unfurled in the pit of Ivy’s stomach. Melinda hadn’t disposed of those remains. She’d somehow preserved them. She’d taken their kitchen knife and run it through the flesh and blood of Ivy’s stillborn child. Then planted that knife and the canvas bag and stashed them in the back of David’s truck. Perhaps even called the police with an anonymous tip.

  Element after element of Melinda’s elaborately laid plan had fallen neatly into place. David was in jail. DNA evidence would implicate him in a relationship with Melinda. Now Ivy would disappear, and it would look to the world as if she’d run off with her baby, unable to face the terrible consequences of her husband’s guilt.

  And the baby, her little girl? Ivy rested her palms on her belly. She’d be stolen away, raised by a crazy woman. Brought up in a home steeped in paranoia, nurtured by obsessive love and hatred the way Melinda had been, daughter to a woman who had sacrificed everything, including her own identity, to become her mother.

  Unless Ivy stopped her.

  There would be no time to wait for Jody or Theo to save her. The police were not about to ride in on white steeds. One of Grandma Fay’s favorite sayings came back to her: If you want your eggs to hatch, sit on them yourself.

  But how to escape? She could hear cars driving by, but there were no windows from which to signal for help. The bathroom window was too tiny to crawl through, and the view was blocked by the roof and the chimney.

  If you don’t go over, you must go under. That was another of Grandma Fay’s truisms.

  Ivy stared into the dumbwaiter shaft. Within easy reach was the cable that had once controlled the dumbwaiter, still intact, descending into a dark abyss like the one Ivy was about to be plunged into.

  She leaned into the shaft. For a moment she felt as if someone were rushing her from behind, pushing her forward. She saw herself hurtling through the inky darkness and landing thirty feet down, neck broken, body mangled.

  She bumped her head, the sound echoing in the shaft as she reared back, then steadied herself against the sill, frozen, hoping Melinda hadn’t heard. Sound traveled down as well as up.

  Ignoring her churning stomach—fear, not labor pain, Ivy assured herself—she grasped the cable that ran through the middle of the shaft and slowly pulled. There was a creak overhead as the cable slipped about six inches, then caught. She increased the pressure until her arm was trembling. When she brought her hand back, the insides of her fingers were coated with flecks of rust, and there was a red line where the cable had cut into her.

  Ivy considered the possibility. The cable. The shaft. If she could climb down, she could emerge from the shaft through the sliding panels that provided access to the second-floor landing. It was a way out—if she had the courage to try and the stamina and strength to succeed. She certainly had a full quota of desperation.

  Wasn’t it just another version of rope climbing—Coach Reiner’s favorite drill and, according to him, the ultimate fitness exercise? No better way to build endurance and concentration.

  Ivy would rather have done a hundred push-ups with a thirty-pound pack on her back than climb a rope. Climbing up, she’d been focused. Hand over hand she’d pulled herself up, the rope wound around one leg and anchored with the opposite foot. Descending should have been a cakewalk—just a brake and release, letting her legs and gravity do the work.

  Yet no matter how many times Coach Reiner told her, “Don’t look down,” the minute she reversed gear, she did. Her mouth would go dry, she’d start to sweat, her hands would get slippery, and she’d have the sickening, stomach-roiling sensation that the ground was racing up to smash her in the face. It was humiliating when Coach had had to climb up after her, coax her into peeling her rigid fingers from around the rope and lowering her butt into a rescue sling.

  But this cable was barely a quarter of the diameter of a climbing rope. It had sharp ridges. To shin down it, she’d need something to protect her hands and give her traction. And it wasn’t flexible either—no way to wind the cable around her leg and use the friction to brake and release. She’d need a sling to bear her weight, like the one Coach Reiner had used to bring her down. And something to protect her hands.

  But what?

  Ivy scanned the room. The bedding had been stripped. Towels and shower curtain had been removed from the bathroom. Only a single item remained in the room—her gaze shifted to the straitjacket lying crumpled on the floor.

  She walked over to it, picked it up by the sleeves. The thick fabric seemed sturdy enough. She held it out in front of her like an empty scarecrow. Yanked on one of the leather straps and examined the buckles. They were solidly attached.

  She heard sounds from the kitchen. A cabinet being slammed shut. Then another. A drawer sliding open, then shut. Another drawer, and another. Melinda was looking for something.

  Visualize. That’s what Coach Reiner repeatedly told them. She saw how it could be done. It could work. It had to.

  Ivy rolled up the body of the straitjacket, creating a thick sausage of canvas that could be wrapped around the cable to provide a better handhold. The sleeves and long straps sewn to the ends, hanging out on either side, had the makings of a sturdy sling.

  She returned to the shaft. She leaned forward and reached in. It was just over an arm’s length from front to back and side to side. She ran her hands across the plaster-and-lath walls and the rough, splintery two-by-fours that lined it. She could use those, plus the wooden sills around the dumbwaiter’s windowlike openings on each floor, as footholds.

  From below, Ivy heard what sounded like the refrigerator being opened. Closed. Footsteps growing faint and then vanishing.

  Melinda could be coming back.

  Ivy lowered the dumbwaiter panel until it was completely closed. She placed the straitjacket back on the floor where Melinda had dropped it. Jammed the doorknob back in place. On the floor she found the bent screw that had come loose. She picked it up and twisted it into the screw hole, enough to temporarily anchor the knob.

  Heavy footsteps came from beyond the door, up the attic stairs. Ivy made it back to the bed as the bolt was slid back and the door opened.

  Ivy gasped. Melinda had on a wig of long, straight dark hair with bangs. She’d changed into one of Ivy’s maternity tops, and she’d stuffed something in it to make her look pregnant. She also wore Ivy’s old green Doc Martens.

  It was a weak attempt to pass for Ivy, and anyone who knew Ivy would see through it. But the getup might fool a stranger, someone just seeing the photo ID on Ivy’s driver’s license and expecting a pregnant woman. After all, Mrs. Bindel had mistaken Melinda for Ivy when she’d seen her Sunday night, in the dark, wearing that wig and sunglasses as she planted the bloody clothing in the wicker trunk. Even Ivy, looking out her kitchen window, had been jolted by the resemblance.

  “I need you to drink this,” Melinda said. She held out a tall glass, filled with orange juice. In her other hand, she held the knife. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt you or the baby. Just tansy.”

  Ivy had seen tansy in a wildflower catalog. Little yellow chrysanthemums—like the scraggly yellow flowers she’d seen growing in the ragged herb garden by the kitchen door of Melinda’s mother’s house.

  “Nature’s pitocin,” Melinda added.

  Ivy’s stomach clenched and she drew back. Pitocin was what doctors used to induce labor.

  Melinda crossed the room. “There are other ways I can take this baby.” She let the implication linger. “But, believe me, this is far more pleasant and a whole lot healthier.”

  She put the straw to Ivy’s lips. “Drink.”

&
nbsp; Ivy’s sinuses filled with the citrus sweetness of orange over an acrid bitterness. The glint of the knife was the only thing keeping her from knocking away the glass.

  Melinda poked Ivy’s lips with the straw. “I said drink.”

  Ivy drew some juice into her mouth. She swallowed and gagged. There was that medicinal taste she’d noticed before.

  “Of course, acupuncture is the healthiest way to induce labor,” Melinda went on, like a chirpy TV ad for a natural food supplement. “Next to waiting for it to start on its own, that is. But it’s too late for that now.” She prodded Ivy with the straw again.

  Ivy heard the clicking of Phoebe’s claws on the kitchen floor, rising through the dumbwaiter shaft. The dog’s wheezy breathing. She forced herself to drink, slurping to distract Melinda from the sounds traveling up from the kitchen.

  “Won’t hurt the baby. That’s the important thing.”

  Ivy swallowed the last of the wretched stuff.

  “Excellent. Now we wait.” Melinda glanced at her watch. “Three to five hours. That’s what the experts say.”

  Yesterday’s labor pains—false labor, as it had turned out—had kicked in about four hours after Ivy drank orange juice from the carton in her refrigerator, orange juice that had the same bitter edge to it. What Melinda didn’t know was that Ivy had drunk another half glass when she got home from the hospital, at least three hours ago. She could start getting new contractions any minute.

  “Tansy’s natural but strong,” Melinda said. “Tricky. Too little? All you get is raging diarrhea,” she said, her thoughts coming in bursts. “Too much? Well, that can kill you.”

  Ivy couldn’t tell if it was nausea or dread that engulfed her. How much was too much? There was no way for her to know if she’d exceeded that threshold. She lay down and turned over on her side, hoping that Melinda would take the hint and go. The instant that Melinda left for the crime lab, she’d make her escape. Ivy could feel her narrow margin of safety slipping away.

  “Tired?” Melinda said. “You can’t go to sleep yet.”

  Through half-closed eyes, Ivy saw Melinda take a cassette recorder from her pocket.

  “That message you’ve got on your answering machine? Downright hostile. We need to have something that sounds a bit more…reassuring. Sit up.”

  Ivy pushed herself up. She felt queasy, uncomfortably full. A taste like strong tea and iron filings lingered in her mouth.

  Melinda unfolded some sheets of yellow lined paper and handed them to her. The handwriting on the top sheet was childlike, fat and loopy with little circles instead of dots over the i’s.

  Hi. Sorry I can’t take your call right now, and yes, I’m still waiting, if that’s what you’re calling to find out.

  Melinda held the recorder close to Ivy’s face. In the other hand, she held the knife, the blade cool against the back of Ivy’s bare neck. Ivy shivered.

  “Relax. Make it sound natural,” Melinda said.

  Feigning reluctance, Ivy began to read. In fact, she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible so Melinda would leave.

  She finished reading the first block of text and went on to the next.

  Sorry I missed your call. Thanks for the offer. You don’t mind, do you? I just don’t want company right now. I’ll e-mail.

  She kept reading. Each passage was a variation on how fine she was and how she didn’t want to be bothered. It gave Ivy some satisfaction knowing that none of it would hold Jody off—not for long at any rate.

  When at last Ivy finished, Melinda clicked off the recorder and tucked it away.

  “Don’t worry about your e-mail,” Melinda said. “I’ve taken care of that, too. You’re answering all your messages. Telling everyone how just fine you are. In fact, while you were napping, I e-mailed Kamala at Nextgen. That’s your friend Jody, right? I told her we’re still waiting for the ‘water buffalo’ to drop.” Melinda drew quote marks in the air. “Cute. Amazing how easy it is to sound like someone when you have all their old messages to work with. She e-mailed right back, not in the least bit concerned.”

  “For now,” Ivy said.

  “That’s right. We can’t go on like this too long.” For a moment Melinda locked eyes with her, and Ivy was terrified by the cold determination she saw.

  Melinda looked at her watch. “Less than three to five hours.” She ran her finger inside the neck of her top and hooked a silver chain that was around her neck. She pulled it out. Hanging from it was a silver hand. She rubbed the cobalt blue stone set in the palm.

  Ivy’s amulet.

  32

  Melinda grabbed the empty glass from the floor and slammed out of the room. The bolt shot into place, and her booted footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  Ivy flew across the room to the dumbwaiter. From downstairs she heard Phoebe barking. Then sharp, frantic howls.

  How long would it take Melinda to get to the lab? Ten minutes? She’d have to park, check in. Undoubtedly there would be papers to fill out and sign. The swab and then the drive back.

  Worst case, Melinda would be gone for twenty-five minutes. Best case, forty-five. Would the tansy take effect before then?

  Focus on what you can control, let go of what you can’t. Grandma Fay’s voice in Ivy’s head calmed her.

  Ivy had to wait for Melinda to leave. She couldn’t risk making noise that would alert Melinda to what she was up to. Seconds ticked by, then minutes as Ivy listened for Melinda’s departure. What the hell was she waiting for?

  Then Ivy heard her own voice, floating up to her through the dumbwaiter shaft: “Hi. Sorry I can’t take your call right now….” It was one of the messages Melinda had made Ivy record. Melinda was putting it on the answering machine.

  At last Ivy felt a vibration as the front door to the house closed. A little later the car door slammed. The engine turned over.

  Now was her chance—her only chance. She had to get moving.

  She scooped the straitjacket off the floor, held it out in front of her, and rolled up the body, leaving the arms and dangling straps sticking out at either end. Then she raised the panel to the dumbwaiter. Draped the rolled-up straitjacket over the edge of the opening.

  She sat on the dumbwaiter sill and swung her legs over, inside the shaft. Staring straight ahead, she braced her sneakers against the side walls.

  Was she insane? She was thirty-three years old and massively pregnant. Still, her arms and legs were strong. And her other options were nil.

  The baby shifted inside her, and Ivy felt a rippling arc across her belly like a shooting star. It could work. It had to. She would do whatever it took to keep this baby safe.

  Don’t think. Just do!

  Ivy grabbed the rolled-up straitjacket and leaned forward, fighting off a wave of dizziness and anchoring her senses on the steady patter of rain.

  Don’t look down.

  She wrapped the center of the thick canvas roll like a candy cane’s stripe around the cable—once, twice, three times—then pulled the spiral taut. Last, she buckled the straps at the ends of the sleeves together.

  There would be no coach or teammates at the ready to climb up and rescue her, no mattresses piled up at the bottom if she fell—just a thirty-foot drop through pitch black to the packed-earth floor of the basement.

  Visualize. She took hold of the canvas-wrapped cable with both hands and slowly transferred her weight to her feet, resting them on the edges of two-by-fours on either side of the shaft.

  It’s nothing more than a high curb, she told herself as she hooked one leg and then the other inside the strap sling and set her feet back on the ledges. She lowered her behind slowly into the buckled straps, bending at the knees, pushing down and feeling the spiral of canvas gradually tighten.

  So far, so good. She ignored the fear that licked like flames at her insides.

  She shifted more of her weight into the sling, feeling for two-by-fours farther down, just in case the spiral of canvas failed to generate enough friction to grip
the cable. The cable rasped and groaned, but it held fast as the spiral of canvas kinked.

  It was working. Now to descend.

  Ivy transferred weight to her feet, easing up on the strap sling. The canvas spiral loosened. She tugged it down.

  Would Melinda be arriving at the police lab already? Parking the car? How many more feet before Ivy reached the second-floor opening? Nine? Eight? In three-inch increments, that was going to take…The math was discouraging. She hoped she had that long.

  Ivy felt for a lower foothold, then inched the canvas spiral down. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. Above her, growing dimmer, was the rectangle of light where the panel to the attic remained open.

  She repeated the sequence again, and again, and again—bracing her feet against the shaft to loosen the canvas spiral and shift downward, then lowering herself into the sling, tightening the canvas roll, lowering her feet to the next foothold. She tried not to think about the darkness closing around her. Her every move echoed in the shaft.

  Peristalsis. Eleven letters. She said the word, then spelled it as she continued inching her way down the cable, proceeding entirely by feel, imagining that the dumbwaiter was a snake and she was prey, slowly working her way through its digestive tract.

  Arms and legs trembling with fatigue, Ivy kept going. Just as she was lowering her behind into the sling for what felt like the hundredth time, the phone started ringing. The sound reverberated in the shaft.

  Ivy tried to ignore it. She felt for a lower foothold. Found it. The phone rang again.

  She transferred her weight to her feet.

  The answering machine clicked on.

  The canvas spiral loosened, and she tugged it down a few more inches. Found a fresh foothold. The new voice message played, assuring the world that yes, she was just fine and still waiting.

  “Ivy, where the hell are you?” It was Jody, screaming at the answering machine. “You know this makes me completely crazy. Are you screening this call?” A long pause. “Damn you!”