Hanging Hannah by Evan Marshall Page B

Massachusetts.
    Though Holly didn’t like to admit it, she was excited about Relevant Gods , truly a remarkable novel, and had rushed it for publication in June. That was next month. Corsair was throwing its publication party for Carol this Thursday, in two days. That party, Jane remembered, would be her next date with Stanley Greenberg. Today Jane and Holly were supposed to have lunch so Holly could give Jane the final party details.
    Lunch with Holly was the last thing Jane needed now, but she was curious about Corsair’s party plans, and she knew that if she canceled, Holly would just doggedly pursue Jane until she agreed to make a new lunch date.
    â€œPlease call her and tell her I’ll meet her wherever she wants, and to let me know the time.”
    â€œShe’s already left all that in her message. Twelve-thirty at the Russian Palace.”
    Jane groaned again. She should have known Holly would choose that restaurant, which Jane disliked almost as much as she disliked Holly. The Russian Palace was a pretentious, overpriced, overcrowded, noisy tourist trap. But at least Holly would be paying; the editor always paid.
    Jane realized she wasn’t liking many people or places lately. With a deep sigh, she headed into her office, where she jotted down answers to a list of questions Daniel had left her about a contract he was vetting for one of his own clients. At 10:45, when she could put it off no longer, she rose heavily from her chair and headed out of the office for the bus that would take her into New York City.
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    â€œJane! Jane!”
    Jane squinted into the crowd of people who filled the narrow red-and-gold expanse of the Russian Palace’s dining room. Finally, she spotted Holly at a table near the back and told the maître d’ she saw her party and would make her own way.
    Holly was half standing at the tiny table, waving furiously and wearing a big grin. Jane forced a grin of her own. The two women exchanged air kisses, and Jane set down her bag and dropped into the empty chair, careful not to bang into the man in the chair just behind her.
    â€œWhy don’t they just stack us up,” she said dryly, “like a totem pole.”
    â€œOoh,” Holly said, “in a bad mood today, aren’t we?”
    Jane stared at Holly. Something was different. A lot was different. Then Jane realized it was her hair, which, the last time Jane had seen it—at their last lunch here, actually—had been curly, shoulder-length, and medium brown. Now it was straight and a shiny darker brown, almost black, cut in a severe sort of sharp pageboy that reminded Jane of Claudette Colbert in Cleopatra .
    Without realizing it, Jane must have been staring, because Holly stroked one shiny wing. “Like it?” she purred.
    â€œIt’s very different from last time,” was all Jane could think to say. She wasn’t going to lie and say she liked it, because she didn’t, any more than she liked Holly. She was here, she reminded herself, for Carol Freund. She simply had to get through it.
    â€œKnow who did it?” Holly said, leaning forward.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHec-tor,” Holly said, with exaggerated pronunciation, “at Snip Snip.”
    Jane had to laugh. She tossed back her own shoulder-length auburn mass of hair. “Joanie. At Selma’s Cut ‘n Curl.”
    Holly frowned, pushing out her lower lip. “Are you making fun of me?”
    â€œMoi? Never. Now,” Jane said, ready to change the subject, “how are things at Corsair?”
    â€œTotally fabu!” Holly cried. Suddenly her head turned as if someone had snapped it with a rubber band. She gasped. “That’s Mort Janklow.” She slitted her eyes and made an angry pouting mouth. “He’s having lunch with Ham Kiels.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo,” Holly said, turning back to Jane, “Hamilton Kiels works at Corsair, like me, and he’s only a