They laughed uneasily and Jane went indoors. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, glancing through her copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography. Jane's copy was sitting on top of a cookbook next to the sink.
She looked down at the third copy in her hand.
13
Jane drove them to class that night in her ratty station wagon, having had all Shelley's driving that her nervous system could take for one day. "Shelley, this must be your copy of the book. It isn't ours," she said as they got into the car.
Shelley held up her own book in silent denial.
“I must have accidentally stolen someone else's," Jane said, perplexed. She stuffed the book into her purse.
They were the first to arrive at the city hall classroom, and Jane approached each of the class members as they came in. Bob Neufield was the first to arrive. She debated whether she ought to speak to him after their last run-in and almost kept quiet, but the extra book kept nagging her. Taking a deep breath for courage, she approached him. "Mr. Neufield, I think I may have inadvertently picked up something of yours," she said, holding out the book.
“I don't think so," he said, opening the briefcase he'd carried to class. There, in with the manuscript folders, was a copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography.
“Oh, it must be someone else's," Jane said. She took a deep breath and plunged in to an apology. "Mr. Neufield, I'm sorry if we offended you this afternoon. It certainly wasn't our intention.”
He looked at her coldly. "No offense taken. I un‑ derstand that ladies of your age with a lot of extra time on their hands sometimes get crazy notions.”
Jane couldn't have been more insulted if he'd slapped her. She stared at him, trying to formulate a reply, and he looked back at her, smiling. This time it was a real smile, clearly victorious. Jane turned and went back to her seat.
“Jane, what's the matter?" Shelley asked. "Your face is crimson."
“I can't talk about it now," Jane muttered, her voice quavering with anger and embarrassment. Shelley and Cecily went back to discussing different kinds of apples, a subject that seemed to engage their entire interest at the moment.
Did the bastard think she was menopausal and that her hormones barely excused her? Did he picture her lounging around all day, eating bonbons and thinking of ways to waste a few more hours? On the other hand, he might know perfectly well she didn't, but had gotten back at her in exactly the most vicious way possible. Mad as she was, she secretly thought she might deserve this comeuppance. After all, if he was as innocent as she, he had good cause to be offended at their questioning earlier.
Jane fumed silently for a few minutes and was starting to calm down a little when Ruth Rogers and Naomi Smith came into class. She approached them with the book. "No, it doesn't belong to either of us," Ruth said. "We found it so depressing that we threw our copies out. I didn't want to have anything like that in the house. Horrible woman. It's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but—”
Grady wouldn't claim it either. "Mine's in my car. I keep hoping I'll lose it, but I haven't gotten luckyyet. It was still in my car when I got here. Just pitch it, Jane. Nobody cares.”
But Jane was starting to care and didn't know quite why.
“Missy, is this yours?" she asked when Missy came in.
“I hope not. The last thing I need is another one." "No, I mean it. Did I pick it up from you somehow?”
Missy looked at her oddly, but looked in the canvas bag she carried her class materials in. She pulled out a copy. "This is the only one I carry around. The rest are still in the carton in my car. I'm going to set it out with the trash tonight. Are we all here? No, we're missing Desiree Loftus. Does anyone know if she's coming?”
Ruth raised her hand. "She called and asked me to tell you that she won't be here. She's not feeling well."
“Hung over," somebody muttered. Jane looked around but couldn't tell who'd said it.
“All right," Missy said, taking her place at the front of the room and commanding their attention. "We've had some upset here, so I want to briefly review some of the points we've already covered, then I'm going to go on to some observations and suggestions on chronology, flashbacks, flash forwards, and—”
Jane rummaged in the saddlebag purse for her notebook, still troubled by the mysterious extra copy of Mrs. Pryce's book. If it didn't belong to any of them, how did it get in Shelley's car? And why?
By the time class was over, she had pages of notes of ideas for organizing Priscilla's story. Listening to Missy's lesson, it occurred to her that it would be much more interesting if she started somewhere near the end of Priscilla's life, and suggested mysterious and dramatic things that had happened to her, then started back at the beginning.
A picture had formed in her mind of Priscilla as an old woman, dignified and aloof, living in near isolation in a house in the woods. And by her side, a wolf. A tame wolf, looking up at his mistress, ready to spring to her defense should an enemy come. She didn't know where the wolf idea had come from, but she liked it. If she started with this scene, with a lone horseman approaching—Priscilla calm, perhaps with a weary smile of welcome, the wolf alert, but looking to her to read her reaction to the visitor
“Will you wake up!" Shelley said, nudging her as they came out of the building.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about—" Then she spotted why Shelley was prodding her back to the present tense. Mel VanDyne's little red MG was parked across the lot, and he was approaching.
“Later, Pris," Jane murmured as if she had to excuse herself to a real person. "Hi, Mel. I wasn't expecting to see you."
“I stopped by your house and realized you must be here. How'd it go tonight?" His gaze swept the three of them.
“A very interesting class," Cecily answered. "Nobody died," Shelley added.
Jane could see that Mel was surprised, maybe even offended, by Shelley's bluntness. He really didn't know anything about women, Jane realized. If they weren't fluffy, he didn't know what to make of them. He probably thought all mothers were really Donna Reed at heart.
“Glad to hear it," he said, turning to walk them to Jane's elderly station wagon. "Jane, are you free to go for a little ride? I could follow you home—"
“Go on, Jane. I'll drive your car," Shelley said.
“No, Mom can drive. I'm not insured for demolition derby drivers."
“Jane, I've never had an accident," Shelley reiterated.
“Why you haven't is one of the great mysteries of the universe," Jane said. "It ranks just behind 'Is there a God?' "
“Girls!" Cecily said. "Stop squabbling. I'll drive.”
Mel grinned, and when he'd shown Jane to the car and got in himself, he said, "A mother is a mother forever."
“Dear God, I hope not!" Jane said, laughing. "It's a condition I hope to be eventually cured of."
“You don't mean that," Mel said, turning around and backing out. He put his arm across the back of the seats to do so. Jane liked the brief warmth of his arm against her shoulders.
“No, I don't. Mel, would you drive by Desiree Loftus's house? She wasn't at class."
“You think something's happened to her?" He was suddenly all business.
“No, I just want to be sure.”
Mel found the house without being told the address. Jane realized that he must have a very retentive mind for details of an investigation. As they pulled up in front, however, Desiree could be seen in the front window, carrying a plant through the living room. "Want to go in?" Mel asked.
Jane was relieved. "No need. I was being an alarmist. Where are we off to?"
“I thought a Coke at McDonald's?"
“My kind of date," Jane said, then wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say. This wasn't exactly a date. It was more a casual pickup. She smiled at the thought of being picked up on the cusp of forty.
They got their drinks, then Mel drove to the mall, closed and deserted now, and stopped and turned off the car in the middle of the huge park
ing expanse. "Just thought I'd fill you in a bit," he said.
Jane very nearly said, "Gee, I hoped we were going to make out," but thought better of it for several reasons, the primary being that it was too close to the truth. The other thing that stopped her was the realization that they probably didn't call it that anymore, and he'd feel as if he were out with his mother. Instead, she asked, "Any more word on the poison?"
“Not yet," he said. "I guess once you get past the usual things to test for, you've got a lot of weird stuff to work through. But I did find out a few things I thought might interest you."
“Yes?"
“Ah ... Jane, you do realize this is highly irregular, don't you?"
“What is?" Sitting in a dark parking lot with a possible suspect? Taking an older woman out for a Coke?
“Talking to you about this case. I hope you'll keep anything that I tell you in strict confidence.”
Jane considered seriously. "Except for Shelley. She's my Watson. Or maybe I'm hers. I haven't figured that out yet.”
He didn't answer for a long moment.
“You don't like Shelley, do you?" she asked. "It's not that—"
“She's very blunt. She not only says what she thinks, lots of times she says what I think and didn'tknow," Jane said. "I know you feel we're being terribly callous about all this, and we probably are, but women are tough, Mel.”
He turned and smiled at her, condescendingly, she thought.
Maybe it was because she was still smarting under Bob Neufield's earlier insult, maybe she'd reached some turning point in her life, but she suddenly threw caution to the winds.
“Look here, Detective VanDyne, I know you're a big, macho cop. You think you've seen the real nitty-gritty of life, and housewives are just dust-bunnybrains worrying about trivialities, but you've got it wrong. Any woman who's had to turn a baby upside down and smack it nearly senseless to dislodge a penny stuck in its throat knows as much of life and death as you do—and in a much more personal way. We learn a lot about life, because mothers live it over again in each of their children. You've only gone through teenage angst once. I've been through it three times and still have one to go.”
She was on a roll and couldn't seem to stop. "You think cleaning and cooking and vacuuming are stupid, but they're important. They make a safe haven. Those dumb, boring activities create a place where kids know they're loved, and no matter how badly life kicks them around, there's a place where somebody's doing her best to take care of them. You wouldn't be the person you are if it weren't for a caring mother. Men think they're so damned strong, but for God's sake, haven't you ever stopped to think who raised those strong men? Who taught them to be what they are? Women, that's who! 'Ordinary' women who clean up the cat shit and peel potatoes and make damned Halloween costumes and still man‑ age to do the most important job in the world—raising the next generation!”
Jane stopped raving, shocked at herself.
She cleared her throat, took a reckless swig of her drink that nearly made her choke, and said, "Sorry. I must have suddenly been under the impression I was running for office.”
Mel reached over, took the waxed cup from her hand, and dropped it out on the pavement. Then he put his hand on her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed her.
1 4
“So tell me everything that happened," Shelley said. "I want every intimate detail." It was nine o'clock Thursday morning, and they were having a cup of coffee in Jane's kitchen.
“Everything?" Jane said with a mock leer. "Not with my mother in the house."
“I heard that," Cecily said from the stairs. "Save the girlish confidences and tell me what he knows about Mrs. Pryce's murder," she added, coming into the kitchen and pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Nothing on the poisoning," Jane said, setting out some sweet rolls she'd gotten at the bakery two hours earlier. "By the way, I'm supposed to swear both of you to secrecy. Actually, I'm not supposed to tell you at all, so you have to really, truly swear.”
Her friend and her mother nodded solemnly.
“He was just telling me some of the stuff they'd found out about people in the class. Bob Neufield was kicked out of the army. He was given a ..." She paused. "I've forgotten the word. It wasn't a dishonorable discharge, but it wasn't an honorable discharge either. Damn! How could I forget the term?"
“Never mind the word," Shelley said. "What was he thrown out for?"
“Couldn't tell. This whatever-it-is discharge means the army didn't bring any charges and it isn't a black mark against you. It just means the army no longer has any use for you. Mel says it's usually if the soldier has some habit or characteristic the army considers a liability—homosexuality, drinking, gambling, inability to get along with others. So there's no record of any charges because there weren't any. But they checked all his postings against General Pryce's, and there's no overlap whatsoever. Mrs. Pryce couldn't have met him before coming here."
“So why did she make that crack about him?" Cecily wondered aloud.
“The police are going on the theory that she was just raving. After all, it was nearly the last thing she said, and she was dying. They figure she was hallucinating and mixed him up with someone else. I can see that. He has a very anonymous military look even in civilian clothes. Imagine him in a uniform. He'd look like a hundred other fair, fit, short-haired, middle-aged military men."
“You think they're right?" Cecily asked.
“I hope they are. We've pissed him off, and if he's a killer, that was real stupid," Shelley answered. "What else?" Cecily asked.
“A lawyer turned up with Mrs. Pryce's will, which didn't have anything particularly interesting in it. It was a moderate estate, all the cash assets neatly put in trust for grandchildren. The maid, you'll be surprised to learn, gets the house and all that junk in it."
“She must have something on the old girl," Shelley said. "I can't imagine Pryce giving her a penny out of the goodness of her heart."
“She must have a lot on her," Jane said. "Mel says the maid's been with her since 1940. Just imagine fifty-some years with La Pryce. It's unthinkable!"
“What about the rest of the class?" Shelley asked.
Jane shrugged. "Nothing much we don't already know."
“Nothing!" Shelley said, outraged. "Can't the police do better than that?"
“They only know things about people if it's on an official record. Arrests, lawsuits, that kind of thing. And military records."
“Then we ought to turn crime investigation over to the IRS," Shelley said. She was still chafing over having been audited some months earlier. "They know everything. I imagine in some dusty file there's a record of what brand of toothpaste we all use."
“He did tell me that Grady once got a speeding ticket," Jane said. "To be fair, they probably could get more information if they knew exactly what they were looking for."
“Oh—so we're suddenly bending over backwards to be fair to the police," Shelley said. "Must have been some date."
“I was only out for an hour," Jane said.
“A lot of exciting things can happen in an hour," Shelley said.
Jane ignored her and turned to her mother. "Did you tell Katie I was out with Mel?”
Cecily nodded.
“What did she say? How did she react?”
Cecily sighed. "Just what you'd expect. She's a little jealous, a little embarrassed, a little understanding."
“I've been a widow for a year and a half," Jane said.
Cecily put up her hand. "Darling, you don't have to justify anything to me—or to Katie, for that matter. I think Detective VanDyne is a nice young man, and you deserve a life of your own. But you know we never think about our parents as real people. Think yourself back to that age. Imagine if your father hadn't been around and I'd have dated.”
Jane drew back. "I'd have been appalled.”
Shelley took a second sweet roll and buttered it. "It must be harder, too, for children whose parent has died. If
it's divorce, they've undoubtedly seen a bit of the worst of both parents and can understand why they don't like each other, but Katie has no idea there was anything wrong between you and Steve—"
“She's not alone. Neither did I until he was packing to leave me for that bitch—"
“Don't get fired up. I just mean, she doesn't know that. She thinks that traffic accident was a sudden stop to a perfect marriage and took away a perfect daddy. She's bound to feel that you're betraying his memory."
“So what do I do about it?" Jane asked, instinctively turning back to her mother.
Cecily smiled. "Nothing. She'll adjust. Children are resilient, and so are mothers. Besides, at her age, her own life is much more interesting to her than yours."
“Sad but true," Shelley said with a laugh. "To get back to the subject at hand, what are we going to do? There are only two more classes, and I'm beginning to think that if we don't know anything by the end, we won't ever."
“I feel the same way," Jane said, "though I don't know why we should."
“So what's next?" Cecily asked.
“I thought maybe we could go visit Desiree. Just to see how she's doing and why she wasn't in class last night," Jane said.
“You think she couldn't face us without her guilt showing?" Shelley asked.
Jane wasn't sure if Shelley was serious or joking. "I've been reading Pryce's book this morning, and there's something I'd like to ask her about. Besides, I want to find out if that extra copy of the book is hers."
“Oh, Jane! Are you still going on about that?" "Shelley, it's just a little weird thing that bothers me."
“Did you tell VanDyne about it?"
“Yes, and he considered it every bit as seriously as you do.”
Shelley started clearing their plates. "I'd love to eat my words, but, Jane, there are a jillion copies of the damned thing floating around the class."
“Are you going with us, Mom?" Jane asked.
“No, I don't think so. Katie was stirring when I came down. I'll stick around and gossip with her. Why don't you leave the car, so we can buzz around if she wants.”
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