Seventeen
“ That's what / thought," Jane said.
"How'd you get this book?" Shelley asked.
“It came to our house by accident. An entire box of them. The mail carrier had a bunch of boxes from my parents and unloaded this one on us too. The kids didn't read the address label and ripped into it.”
They hunched over the book, studying the picture closely. "Their hair is different. Both of them. And they're 'dressed for success' in the picture," Jane said. "But I'm sure they're the same people. They have the same teeth as the Johnson do. I always notice teeth. It's stretching coincidence too far that they'd have exact doubles who just happened to send them a box full of books.”
Shelley sat back, scowling. "So we're their next guinea pigs, right? They're doing this hillbilly act to shock the suburbanites and madly scribble down our reactions. That pisses me off."
“It hurts my feelings," Jane admitted. "I was going out of my way to like them, be nice to them, even defend them against the Concerned Citizen junk, and all the time they're considering me a lab rat. If their other books were such bestsellers, that means they're rich, probably highly sophisticated academics who are slumming."
“Right," Shelley said. "Wait while I get dressed."
“You're getting dressed to go to bed when you're already in your nightgown?"
“No, we're going to take that box of books to the rightful recipients.”
The box was on the porch between them. Jane rang the bell and Tiffany opened the door. "Tiff, the post office accidentally gave me a package that belongs to you," Jane said. "I'm sorry to say my kids thought it was more Christmas packages from their grandparents and opened it.”
She bent down and picked up one end of the box and Shelley got the other, although it didn't require two of them to carry it. The point was to get in the house without handing the box over to Tiffany — or Dr. Lenore Johnson, to be more accurate.
Tiffany looked alarmed. "Here you go, I'll take it," she said.
“No, no, we'll put it inside," Shelley said, coming very close to physically shoving Tiffany aside.
As arranged, Jane managed to trip going in the house and dropped her end of the box, which allowed a couple books to spill out.
“Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," she said, almost bumping heads with Tiffany as they both leaned over very quickly to pick up books.
Jane grabbed one while Tiffany frantically stuffed the others back.
“Hmmm," Jane said, holding it up. "What an interesting-looking subject." She flipped it over. "And what attractive authors. Somehow I have the feeling they're familiar.”
She looked straight into Tiffany's eyes and tossed the book into the box.
Billy Joe had heard them talking and had come into the room. He was now standing behind Tiffany, who turned and looked at him panic-stricken, then back at Jane.
“You know, don't you?" she asked.
Jane nodded.
“And you're angry," Billy Joe said. It wasn't a question.
“We sure are," Shelley said.
It was amazing the way his very appearance changed when he dropped the twangy speech and good of boy grin. Even wearing overalls and a plaid shirt, he looked like a college professor now.
“I guess we should explain…" Billy Joe (Dr. William Johnson in the picture) said.
But Jane and Shelley weren't having any. "It's late. We have to go," Shelley said.
“Please—" Tiffany began.
“Nothing you can explain is going to improve our dispositions," Jane said. "I can promise you that.”
Both of the Drs. Johnson were still sputtering fitfully as Jane and Shelley left the house. "Canyou come in for a while?" Jane asked. "Or are you still planning to go to bed early?"
“I'm much too mad to sleep," Shelley said.
They tidied up the mess the kids had made with dinner, fixed themselves soft drinks, and settled in Jane's living room. Jane dredged up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It didn't help at all.
Shelley said, "When I read those other books they wrote, I really thought they were fascinating. But the idea of you and me and our families and neighbors being put under their sociological microscope makes me furious. I know that's selfish, not caring about other people's privacy, only my own. And being made to feel bad about myself makes me even angrier."
“Do they use people's real names?" Jane asked.
Shelley shrugged. "I hope not, but I don't know. The people they write about are very vivid. They probably fictionalize a bit and have to use fake names."
“But when the book about us comes out, we'll all be recognizable to each other, won't we," Jane said. "I'm just sick about this. It's a betrayal. A huge, mean-spirited practical joke.”
Shelley nodded. "More to you than most of us, Jane. You went out of your way to be nice to them. I was only nice to them because I knew you'd take me to task if I weren't. This sure explains a lot, doesn't it?"
“What do you mean?"
“About them," Shelley said. "Why they seem too young to be retired. Why Billy Joe works at a computer and has lots of reference books. Why they appear to have plenty of money from an unknown source. Why they're renting instead of buying."
“Didn't Sharon Wilhite say she owns the house? Didn't she have to know they were fakes?"
“She probably rents it through an agency. I can't quite see her rushing home from the office to chat with potential renters. As for a signature on a contract, 'Billy Joe' really is William J. Johnson and Tiffany/Lenore probably didn't sign it.”
Katie came thumping down the stairs, into the kitchen, and called out, "Thanks, Mom. I was gonna clean it all up. Really, I was."
“It's okay," Jane said listlessly.
Katie came in and looked at her mother, then reached out and pretended to take her pulse. "Are you okay? You should be mad at us."
“I'm too busy being mad at someone else just now."
“Oh, good," Katie said. "Does that mean you wouldn't care if I had a few girls over for the night?"
“It does not."
“Too bad," Katie said cheerfully and headed back to her room.
“It's Saturday night and none of my children asked to go anywhere!" Jane said, suddenly aware of something other than the Johnsons. "What's wrong with this picture?”
But Shelley wasn't willing to wander off the path. She was annoyed and she intended to stay annoyed until she'd hashed the whole situation out. "The strange thing is, they're changing their technique.”
“What?"
“Well, I've only read two of the books. I think there are four. But in those two, the Johnsons moved into an area and tried to fit in. I remember something about learning to speak Spanish before moving into the Hispanic town and dying their hair dark so they'd fit in better. And in the one about the Pennsylvania mining community, they did a full year's research on the area, the history, the family names, mining terms, and such."
“But they didn't do that here," Jane mused. "No, they set out to be as obvious and misplaced as possible," Shelley agreed.
“I wonder why."
“So do I. Maybe it's a marketing thing. Like, you know, the editor says the sales of the last book weren't as fabulous as the one before and they better jazz the new one up a bit."
“More of an exposé than a study, you mean. 'Look at how nasty these snobs are to somebody who doesn't fit in'?”
Shelley nodded. "Something like that, maybe. Skewering the subject group instead of merely describing them. Come to think of it, when I read the two books, as much as I enjoyed them for an insight into another subculture, I had a faintly uneasy sense that the people they studied were being patronized. Not quite skewered, just a hint. There were a lot of 'bad guys' and not many 'good guys.' "
“And housewives like us make excellent targets. Oh, Shelley, imagine how they might be describing my parties, or Suzie's blatant man-hunting or Julie Newton's general ditsiness."
“Do you think they told the police the truth
about who they really are and what they're doing here?" Shelley asked. "They couldn't make up a story about their background in Hog Wallow or wherever they might claim to be from without a background check showing that they were lying. And lying to the police isn't a good idea.”
Jane got up to refill their drinks. Shelley trailed along and opened the freezer door to get more ice. "Why don't you get that ice-maker fixed?"
“Inertia," Jane said.
“Got anything to eat?”
Jane laughed. "I'm the Queen of Leftover Cookies, Shelley.”
As they sat back down to nibble, Jane said, "I wish Mel had more time to fill us in. Do you think I should call him?"
“And risk having to talk to Addie?"
“Good point. Shelley, could this mean they had something to do with Lance King's death? A motive? You used the word 'exposé' a while ago. If we're right about them changing their technique, they and Lance were both in the exposé business. Maybe he found out who they really were.”
Shelley considered this. "But the worst he could have said about them was that they were best-selling authors. That's an accolade, not something to be ashamed of."
“If you're concealing the fact of how you earn your living — and it's a good living, it sounds like — having it known could be a big financial threat."
“Oh, right. We'd all be on our best behavior if we knew what they were really doing and they wouldn't get a true picture? Still, Jane, it doesn't seem to me to be a good enough motive to actually murder someone to keep them quiet. That would really wreck their careers if they were found out.”
Jane lit another cigarette, wondering as she did whether two of them so close together would make her dizzy.
“I sincerely hope you're right, Shelley, because if knowing their true identity caused them to kill Lance King, you and I could be in big trouble. Now we know who they are.”
Eighteen ,··,
Sunday morning Jane dragged herself and the kids to the nine o'clock church services. She didn't feel like getting dressed up and going out in the cold any more than they did. But then she often didn't feel like going and was always glad afterwards that she'd made the effort. The Sunday before Christmas was always especially beautiful and uplifting. It was really a lovely morning. Very cold and clear and very little wind and a brilliant sun shining on the two inches or so of new snow that had fallen overnight.
“See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said as they drove home.
Mike had the Sunday paper in the car and just rattled it in reply. Todd was trying to get the comics away from his older brother and said nothing, but Katie said, "It was okay."
“Okay? Come on! I saw you going all gooey when those little bitty kids came up the aisle to put their gifts at the manger scene."
“All right. It was nice," Katie admitted. "They sure were cute, weren't they? Are the packages real presents?"
“Were you paying attention? They're presents for the children at the homeless shelter. Katie, see if the car heater's working right. It's awfully cold."
“The bank clock across the street showed it dropped four degrees while we were in church," Mike contributed from the back seat.
“I haven't had time to watch the news," Jane said. "Is it supposed to get really cold?”
There was a consensus of shrugs. Jane told herself to remember to leave the faucet dripping in the guest bathroom where the pipes were most likely to freeze. When they drove up to the house, Pet was at the side kitchen door and Mel was sitting in front keeping warm in his MG.
When they were all inside and had shed their coats, Jane started working on throwing together a real breakfast. "Mel, I thought I might make a nice big batch of chili for dinner. Would you and your mother like to come?"
“Can't," he said. "She's got some old friends who already invited us to dinner. I'd much rather come here. These are people I haven't seen since I was seven and have never missed.”
He'd pitched in to help, handing her a carton of eggs from the fridge and getting out the butter to warm up in the microwave. Mike was already cooking the bacon, a job Jane despised, and Katie was lining up the bread for the toaster. Todd and Pet were at the table where he was doling out the comics to her, page by page.
“See, kids?" Jane warned. "You are your mother's children all your life. She just wants to show you off, Mel.”
The doorbell rang and Jane automatically cracked another two eggs. Whoever it was would certainly want to eat.
“I lurked outside until I knew you were cooking," Ginger said. Pet helped her take her coat off. "Smells wonderful."
“You'll eat with us, won't you?" Jane asked.
“You think you could stop me? It's my least favorite meal to fix and most favorite to eat. Do you have cinnamon sugar? No? I'll fix some. It isn't breakfast without cinnamon sugar on butter-slathered toast.”
Ginger made no effort to explain what she had come for and Jane began to wonder if she had just been cruising around looking for someone to feed her. Finally, as they were carrying plates to the dining room, since there was too much of a crowd for the kitchen, Ginger said, "I didn't just come to mooch food. I'd like to interview you."
“Me?" Jane asked. "Why?"
“Because of the party and Lance's death.”
“Nope," Jane said. "I'm sorry."
“I won't use your name."
“I don't even know as much about it as you probably do," Jane said.
Ginger suddenly looked startled, as if someone had pinched her. She turned to Mel, who was trying to get his cinnamon sugar on the bread instead of all over the table and himself. "I'll bet you didn't get anything off Lance's computer, right?"
“Nope," he said. "Nothing of any use."
“Oh, God! I feel so stupid and you're going to want to smack me—”
Mel put his toast down and looked at her. "Why?" he asked in a very ominous tone of voice.
“Well, I'd forgotten something. Lance told me once that he never, never worked directly on the hard drive. I thought he was just trying to discourage me from messing with his computer to see what kind of stories he was working on. But then I started noticing that every single time he used it, when he turned it off, he took out the disk and put it in his pocket."
“He didn't have a disk on him when he died," Mel said.
“Then he must have lost it somewhere, because he always had at least one, and usually a couple on him.”
Mel said, "Jane, you didn't find a disk here, did you?"
“No, and I did a fairly good cleaning between the caroling party and the cookie party. It's not something you could accidentally vacuum up."
“Then it's probably outside somewhere in the snow. Hell!" he said. With obvious regret and a meaningful glare at Ginger, he pushed his plate away, got up, and went to the phone. When he got back, he said, "I have some people coming over to search. As cold as it's getting, that's sure going to make me real popular."
“Then finish your breakfast while you're wait‑
ing," Jane insisted. "They won't be here in‑
stantly and if it's out there, it's been there a
while already. Ten minutes more won't matter."
The yellow tape, which had been removed from the Johnsons' yard, was replaced. Mel and three other officers borrowed rakes from several neighbors and started scratching up all the new snow. Two other officers were precariously doing the same on the roof. Jane had generously offered to help, knowing full well they wouldn't let a "civilian" on the grounds. Nor was there any sign of Billy Joe and Tiffany.
Jane had wanted to talk to Mel about her brief conversation with them the night before and her and Shelley's discovery of who they really were, but there wasn't time to speak privately. Especially not with a reporter in the house. Nor could she mention the talk they'd had with Sharon Wilhite.
The police presence at the Johnson house again had drawn quite a crowd. Neighbors pretending to be out on walks stopped by and gawked. The influx of traffic that t
he holiday decorations had caused added to the confusion. A number of cars stopped and their occupants wandered over to the yellow tapes to ask what was going on. Other reporters from the newspapers and television stations turned up. Jane got out the monster coffeemaker, made up a strong, hot brew, and took cups of it over to Mel to distribute among his people.
The temperature continued to fall. Jane remembered the pipes and left a slow stream of water running in the guest bathroom. Shelley had called almost immediately when the police tape went up to see what was going on and came over about two to do a little gawking of her own from Jane's bedroom window. They lamented over the fact that Jane hadn't had anopportunity to tell Mel what they'd found out. Not that he didn't already know more than they did.
“Have you seen anything of the Johnson?" Shelley asked.
“Not hide nor hair… nor costume," Jane said. "I presume they're in the house, but they haven't stepped foot outside that I've noticed since the police surrounded their house again.”
As she spoke, she caught a glimpse of Billy Joe cutting across between their house and Jane's. "I think he's coming here, Shelley. Oops, you missed him."
“You're not going to let him in your house, are you?”
Jane thought for a second. "He's not simpleminded. I can't imagine he'd think he could walk through a whole flock of police, come in here and kill both of us, and walk back through the flock without raising suspicion."
“Okay, but I'll watch from up here," Shelley said. "If it looks like trouble, I'll open a window and scream the place down.”
Jane let Billy Joe wait in the cold for a while and opened the door after he'd rung twice. "Yes?" she asked coolly.
He'd abandoned the Billy Joe persona and looked very "Ivy League on a Sunday Off." He was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt, jeans, expensive-looking hiking boots, and a parka like the one Jane had considered getting Mike for Christmas that had cost nearly as much as her first car. He really did look like a different person.
“May I come in for one minute? Just one minute."
“I suppose so.”
Jane opened the door a little wider and stood aside, but didn't move from the hallway.
The Merchant of Menace jj-10 Page 12