Jane, Unlimited

  Ivy’s strong voice rises behind Jane from the bushes. “I’ve got a gun too,” she says. “Drop yours, Lucy, or I’ll shoot you.”

  Lucy snarls. “You don’t have a gun.”

  “Don’t I?” says Ivy. “If you hurt Janie, I’ll make your knees explode. Now drop it. I’m going to count to one.”

  What happens next happens so fast that Jane can barely follow it. Jasper launches himself at Lucy. Lucy tries to shoot him. Jane screams and runs at them, Lucy’s gun goes off, and Jasper’s teeth are clamped around Lucy’s knee. Lucy goes down again, Lucy is screaming in pain, and Jasper is bleeding. Jasper is bleeding! Jane falls on Lucy and wrests the gun from her hands. She doesn’t know what to do with it once she has it, but then Ivy is beside her, taking it away. Ivy trains Lucy’s gun on Lucy, who’s still screaming, still struggling to escape the grip of Jasper’s teeth. Jasper is holding on hard.

  “Brave dog,” Jane says, grabbing on to him. It’s just his ear. Lucy’s shot a hole through the flap of his big, floppy ear. Tears stream down Jane’s face. “Jasper, you brave, brave dog. I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Let go. Let me look at your ear.”

  Jasper lets Lucy’s knee go. Jane hugs him and he licks her face, bleeding all over her. She cries into his fur. It’s a big wet mess. His ear is bleeding copiously and Jane presses on it with her sleeve, not really sure how to help him, until Ivy suggests Jane remove one of her layers and use it to tie the ear tightly to his head.

  “I’d give you one of my layers,” Ivy says, “except that I’m not taking my eyes off this asshole.”

  “It’s lovely, your concern for the dog,” snarls the asshole in question, rocking over her injuries, moaning. “I’m in bad shape here.”

  Jane can’t stand the sound of Lucy’s voice in her airspace. “If she talks again,” she says to Ivy, “shoot her.”

  “Changed your mind, then?” asks Ivy in a gently teasing tone.

  Jane is too ashamed to look at Ivy. She tries to fashion a bandage for Jasper with her hoodie. It’s not going well. She’s still crying, and frightened, and shaking too hard.

  She takes a deep, steadying breath.

  “Hey, Janie,” Ivy says quietly. “You know we’re all going to be okay, right? We’ve got this.”

  * * *

  The three women and one dog make an odd procession back to the house. Jane is still in her Doctor Who pajamas, she’s covered in Jasper’s blood, and her face is tear-stained. Her hoodie is wrapped twice around Jasper’s head, its sleeves tied in a bow. Jasper doesn’t seem to mind looking silly. His head is high and he walks with a spring in his step.

  “Jasper,” Jane says to him, “you are the picture of heroism.”

  Several feet ahead of them, Lucy snorts. Lucy is bloody, bedraggled, and limping, her wrists locked together with restraints Ivy pulled out of her backpack.

  Ivy walks behind her, Lucy’s gun held coolly in her hands, like some sort of ninja wondergirl.

  “Who were you waiting for back on shore, Lucy?” Ivy asks. “After your friends in the boat left and before you heard us talking? Who were you expecting?”

  “No one.”

  “Bullshit,” Ivy says. “Who did you leave the house with early this morning, carrying a flashlight and the Vermeer? Janie saw you.”

  “You’ll never link me to the Vermeer,” Lucy says. “Janie must’ve seen the guys from the boat.”

  “No,” Ivy says, “she didn’t. Only one of those guys had wet pants legs.”

  “So maybe the other one changed into dry pants when he got back to the boat.”

  “What happened,” says Ivy, “is that you and an accomplice carried the Vermeer from the house to the forest this morning and passed it to the guy in the boat. The guy with wet pants was a lookout for the other one. We saw him sitting in the ramble. The person you left the house with acted as your lookout. I want to know who it is.”

  “I don’t have an accomplice,” Lucy says in a bright, musical voice.

  “Right,” says Ivy sarcastically. “Whoever your accomplice is, I expect all your wailing chased him neatly away, so, well done with that.” Then Ivy reaches an arm around to her backpack again, pulls out a walkie-talkie, and speaks into it. “Hello,” she says. “Somebody pick up. Mrs. V? Mr. V?” No one answers.

  Jasper, struggling his way up the hill beside Jane, slipping on leaves and beginning to pant, makes Jane’s tears rise again. “Are you okay, buddy?” Jane asks him. “Do you want to be carried?”

  “Almighty god,” says Lucy. “Maybe we should stop so you can build a shrine to the dog.”

  “The dog is the reason we’re safe and you’re in trouble,” Jane says coldly to her back. “That’s why you keep making snide remarks about the dog. The dog kicked your sorry ass.”

  Now Ivy is chuckling. Reaching once more into her backpack, she pulls out a chocolate bar and hands it to Jane. Jane tears it open, amazed at how hungry she is.

  Again Ivy tries the walkie-talkie. Finally, as they break out of the trees onto the lawn, Mrs. Vanders’s voice comes crackling through. “Ivy-bean?” she says. “Where are you?”

  Moments later, calls have been made and a contingent of New York State troopers is on its way.

  “They’ll also search the waters between the island and the mainland, with the hopes of intercepting that boat,” says Mrs. Vanders’s scratchy voice. “And I’ll send a couple people into the ramble to look for the accomplice.”

  “And a vet,” Jane says to Ivy. “Jasper needs a vet.”

  “Yes,” says Ivy into the walkie-talkie. “Jasper needs a vet. Lucy shot him. He’s got a bleeding hole in his ear flap.”

  “My god!” says Mrs. Vanders. “How unnecessary! Patrick!” Jane hears her bellow. “The dog needs a vet!”

  “Has anyone snuck into the house in the last few minutes?” Ivy asks.

  “Ivy,” says Mrs. Vanders’s voice, “are you forgetting it’s a gala day? The doors have been wide open and people have been streaming in and out since the sun came up.”

  “Damn,” says Ivy. Then she says to Lucy, “Your accomplice is having one hell of a lucky day. Kind of makes you jealous, doesn’t it?”

  “No doubt it would,” says Lucy, “if I had an accomplice.”

  “You do realize you’ll go down for the Brancusi too, don’t you, Lucy?” says Ivy.

  Lucy’s only response to this is a tight mouth and a closed face.

  “Maybe they’ll even reopen the case on the Rubens,” says Jane.

  “Yeah,” says Ivy. “Good point, Janie.”

  When the group reaches the house, they’re met on the back terrace by Mrs. Vanders, who comes forward to clap a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and lead her inside, face grim. Octavian the Fourth, looking sallow in his paisley dressing gown, is also standing on the back terrace, as is Ravi, who is wide-eyed and speechless. Ravi’s eyes on Lucy are disbelieving. He looks like a hurt little boy. Lucy stares back at him. When a tear slides down Ravi’s face, Lucy begins to cry silent, angry tears of her own.

  * * *

  The police divide into two groups, one searching the forest for Lucy’s accomplice, the other commandeering the billiard room, because it has only two doors, and they both close. They’ve made clear their intention to talk to the entire household, one by one, starting with Lucy, then Jane, then Ivy, then Ravi. Then everyone who was awake when Jane and Ivy brought Lucy back to the house, which includes Octavian, Mr. and Mrs. Vanders, Cook, Patrick, all the regular staff, and all the temporary staff hired for the party. Then everyone who was asleep, or claimed to have been, and wandered downstairs after the fact: Phoebe Okada, Colin Mack, Kiran.

  The vet has also arrived, a big bear of a woman who’s in the kitchen making a gentle fuss of stitching Jasper’s ear. She says Jane did well with the improvised bandage and shouldn’t be alarmed by the blood. “Ears bleed like that,?
?? she says, “but it looks worse than it is. This dog is going to be just fine.” Nonetheless, every time Jane looks at Jasper, tears start sliding down her face. When he gazes back at her lovingly, it only makes the tears come faster.

  The police, armed with the basic story, talk to Lucy alone for a very long time.

  Jane and Ivy wait their turns in the gold sitting room, which adjoins the billiard room. Ivy sits quietly, watching Jane sniffle and rip her cuticles until they bleed. Jane looks back at Ivy once and notices that her irises turn purple at the edges. She doesn’t look at Ivy again.

  Finally, Ivy speaks. “Are you mad at me?”

  Jane finds some dirt under a fingernail and digs at it, only managing to lodge it deeper. Ramble dirt, no doubt. Crime-fighting, mystery-solving, confusion dirt.

  “I’ve been trying to imagine what this is like for you,” says Ivy. “Especially since it sounds like—you know about some things. Like, you saw something, or overheard something, with Philip? Maybe with Patrick?” She pauses. “Anyway, I’d be mad.”

  “I don’t see why I should tell you what I saw or heard,” Jane says simply, “when you haven’t told me anything.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And I don’t know why you’re asking me if I’m mad,” Jane continues in an even tone, “when you’re the one who’s been acting like you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you,” says Ivy dismally.

  “Well, you’ve been wandering around with your camera,” says Jane, “making that shutter noise, pretending to take pictures of the art, and then, when you see me, you act like you’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad at you,” Ivy repeats. “I’m mad that I’m not allowed to tell you what’s going on.”

  “Well,” says Jane. “You need to improve your directionality.”

  This almost elicits a surprised smile from Ivy.

  “I’ve been failing lately,” Jane says, “pretty hard, at figuring out who to trust.”

  “That’s partly my fault,” says Ivy, leaning toward her. “It’s Lucy’s fault too. She tricked you. She took advantage of your better nature. She’s the sucky, faily one, not you.”

  “I should’ve known,” Jane says. “You knew right away.”

  “Yes, well,” says Ivy with a wry expression, slumping back in her seat. “Not trusting people isn’t something to be proud of, either.”

  “But you were right,” Jane says. “You got it right.”

  “Only because I have more experience with untrustworthy people,” Ivy says. “Janie, seriously. You were brave out there. You tried to keep everyone safe, even Lucy, all while not knowing what was going on. You got the gun away from Lucy, for god’s sake.”

  Smoothing the sleeves of her pajama top, Jane lets this praise lap against her, cautiously. Then one of the police officers sticks his head through the billiard room doorway, glares all around, retreats again, and slams the door.

  “I’m nervous,” says Jane.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane says. “I’ve never been questioned by the police before.”

  “Ah,” says Ivy. “Well, all you have to do is tell the truth.”

  “That’s just it,” says Jane. “What if I incriminate someone innocent by accident?”

  “I think that in this sort of situation,” Ivy says, “you can’t help what you do by accident. And you’re much less likely to hurt innocent people if you tell the truth.”

  Jane studies Ivy’s calm face. “The truth is that you told Lucy you had a gun,” she says.

  “Ah,” says Ivy again. “But did you ever actually see that gun?”

  “No,” Jane admits, “not exactly.”

  “The police will ask you what I said and what I did,” Ivy says. “Just tell them the truth. They’ll conclude that I was only pretending to have a gun, for leverage.”

  Jane swallows. “That does make me feel better. A little. Except that I saw the shape of the gun under your hoodie.”

  Ivy glances down at her hoodie, which is flat now, with no gun-shaped bulges. She’s wearing canvas sneakers now too, and her hair is tied back in a messy knot. While Jane was fussing over Jasper and the household was waiting for the police, Ivy must have returned to her room and made a few changes. “Then you should tell them that too,” she says simply. “A shape under a hoodie is pretty inconclusive.”

  “I want to know what’s really going on,” Jane says, holding Ivy’s eyes. “Personally, for myself.”

  Ivy’s eyes are a soft, worried blue behind her glasses. “Is it okay with you if we have that conversation later? After the police go?”

  “Will we actually have it?”

  “Yes,” says Ivy. “I swear it.”

  “Will you tell me everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Is it going to upset me?”

  Ivy takes a slow breath. She seems very tired suddenly, blinking eyes that look like they sting with exhaustion. “I don’t know,” she says. “The truth is, I’ve lost perspective.”

  “I can help you with that,” Jane says. “If it’s upsetting, I’ll make sure to get really upset, so you can’t miss it.”

  Ivy laughs. “You think you’re joking, but that probably would be helpful. That’s how much I’ve lost perspective.” Then she yawns. “Yeesh, sorry. Are you less nervous now?”

  “Well,” Jane says, pausing. “I went to Ravi’s room first before I came to yours. He wasn’t there.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Ivy says, “I can see why you wouldn’t want the police to know that, but Ravi can take care of himself. He’ll tell the police where he was. You could complicate things for him if you say he was where he wasn’t.”

  Ivy is right. Jane’s best course is to tell the truth.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “Sure,” says Ivy. “It’s normal to be nervous.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I am,” she says. “I’m like a duck on the water. I look calm but my feet are working a mile a minute underneath. And I haven’t slept yet, so I’m basically a mess.”

  “Are you sure Lucy has an accomplice?”

  “I don’t know,” says Ivy. “She definitely seemed to be expecting someone besides us on the beach. She must be going crazy trying to figure out who took the Brancusi, and I was hoping she suspects her own accomplice. Because could she really believe that there could be three art thieves in the house at once? Lucy, Lucy’s accomplice, and someone else? Wouldn’t she think that’s too much of a coincidence?”

  “You’re certain Lucy didn’t take the Brancusi?”

  “Yeah,” Ivy says. “I’m sorry it keeps coming back to the things I can’t tell you.”

  “But that’s why you taunted her, saying she’d go down for the Brancusi?” Jane says. “You were hoping it would convince her to name her accomplice?”

  “Yeah,” Ivy says. “If she has one. It could be that the guy with the wet pants came to the house to meet her, and you saw the two of them entering the forest. But I doubt it.”

  Suddenly Jane realizes something. “Ivy,” she says. “The police are going to ask you about the Brancusi. And they’re going to ask if you really had a gun. Are you going to lie?”

  Ivy pauses, glancing into the light coming from the ballroom doorway. The ends of her hair glow gold. “I’m going to do what I think is right,” she says. “And after all this is over, I swear to you I’m going to tell you all the things I can’t tell you right now.”

  Jane sits quietly with this for a moment, until she realizes two things. One, that she believes Ivy. Two, that she really can’t believe, despite guns and missing children and stolen art, that anything Ivy’s doing is truly bad.

  “You know there’s a word for that shutter sound?” says Ivy.
br />   “Huh?”

  “That sound a digital camera makes. The fake shutter sound.”

  “It’s fake?”

  “Well, think about it. A digital camera doesn’t have a shutter. It’s just designed to make the noise cameras used to make, back when they did have shutters.”

  “I never thought about that!”

  “There’s a word for a design choice that incorporates a feature that’s now obsolete. I can’t remember what it is.”

  “Think it’s a Scrabble word?”

  Ivy grins. “I certainly hope so.”

  Jane can’t explain it, but she feels more ready for the police now. She feels like she can handle whatever comes. “I’d like to know what word that is.”

  “I promise that when I think of it,” says Ivy, “I’ll tell you.”

  * * *

  When the police yank Lucy St. George out of the billiard room, she trips over the molding, remaining upright only because one of the officers is gripping her arm hard. It seems to Jane that they’re being unnecessarily rough. Jane wants to be glad, but Lucy’s not a big person. As they haul her through the gold sitting room, she winces in pain.

  She catches Jane’s eye. “Is Ravi in the receiving hall?” she asks.

  Jane can’t imagine why she should answer. “I don’t think so.”

  Lucy seems relieved. “Thanks,” she says as the police drag her away.

  Jane wants to yell after her that she didn’t arrange it for Lucy’s convenience. That she would never do anything for a person who lies and pretends, then shoots a dog.

  A surly policeman who smells like the sea comes to the billiard room doorway and calls Jane’s name.

  The police officers, two men and one woman, have impassive faces, sharp voices, and a lot of questions. Jane tells the truth, and most of the time, her honest answer is, “I don’t know.”

  “The man in the forest was eating an orange,” she offers at one point.

  “Eating an orange,” her interrogator repeats in an expressionless voice, not writing this illuminating piece of evidence down. Jane and the police officers are sitting, a bit awkwardly, around one end of the fanciest billiard table she’s ever seen, with dusty blue felt and lions carved into the wooden legs.