“Jane! Dinner's ready!" Cecily called up the stairs. Jane glanced at her watch and was astonished to see that it was already six o'clock. Where had the time gone?
“Mom, that was great," Jane said, taking one last bite of cucumber. Cecily had fixed a chicken casserole dish with peas and water chestnuts that was layered with lasagna noodles and white sauce and cheese-crusty on the top.
“It's the curry powder."
“I didn't taste curry." Jane started clearing the table.
“That's the secret. There's not a chicken dish in the world that can't benefit from a breath of curry. Jane, I'll do that. You've got to get to class."
“Me? Aren't you coming?"
“Not tonight. Katie called while you were in the basement throwing things in the dryer. She said there's some problem with the chlorine tanks and they're closing the pool tonight at seven. She wanted to know if we could go to a movie. I told her you needed to go to class, but that I'd like to go. You can take notes for me, can't you?"
“I'd be glad to. Are you sure you don't mind missing it?"
“I'd feel a lot worse about missing a chance to go out with my granddaughter. You better catch Shelley, though. I'll need your car.”
Jane dialed Shelley and made the arrangements. On the way to class a few minutes later, Jane told about the flowers she'd received. "They aren't from Mel. I don't think they're from Grady, but I never heard back from Missy. I'm sure they didn't come from the slimeball—"
“What slimeball in particular?"
“Oh, didn't I tell you about the liquor store? You'll love this—”
The story took them all the way to the parking lot of the city hall. They were sitting in the car laughing when Missy pulled in. She came over to Shelley's car. "Jane, sorry I couldn't return your call. I did check with Grady. He said no, he didn't send them, which isn't surprising. Grady doesn't 'do' flowers. I send myself a poinsettia every Christmas in his name, and also a nice corsage of gardenias for my birthday. He always pays the bill, but never thinks of taking on the whole job himself. Where's your mother, Jane?”
Jane explained.
“There are Ruth and Naomi. Grady's picking up Bob because his car wouldn't start. They ought to be along in a minute. I'm going in and get my notes in order."
“We'll come in in a sec," Jane said. When Missy had left, Jane turned to Shelley. "If Grady didn't send me the flowers, who did? And, Shelley, I haven't even told you about the birdcage yet."
“Birdcage? Jane, is Mel picking you up?"
“I don't think so. He called this afternoon, but he didn't say anything.”
Shelley tapped her nails on the steering wheel thoughtfully. "You haven't filled me in on your date yet, either. Jane, we need a serious talk. This has gone on long enough! We've got to get everything sorted out and someone arrested.”
1 8
Jane hadn't really expected Mel to be waiting for her to get out of class again, but that hadn't kept her from hoping—and from being disappointed when he wasn't there. She and Shelley went back to Jane's house and found that Cecily and Katie weren't home from the movies yet. "All right," Shelley said, all business, "show me this birdcage.”
Jane had to think a minute before she remembered that she'd set it inside the garage door. She brought it in and set it on the kitchen table. Both women sat down and stared at it for a moment. "It's not a real birdcage," Shelley said. "I've seen this before."
“Have you?" Jane looked at it, and her eyes widened in recognition. "Yes, so have I, come to think of it. It had candies in it when I first saw it. That's what I first thought of when I found it. But where—"
“Put it at the back of your mind. It's easier to remember things that way. So, where did you find it?"
“On the patio table."
“When?"
“This morning. After we got back from Desiree's house. I went outside and it was on the patio table." "How long had it been there?"
“How would I know, Shelley? It didn't come with a timer."
“I mean, when was the last time it wasn't there?”
It only took Jane a few seconds to interpret this question. "I can't remember if I went out there earlier today. Wait. Yes, I got up very early and had a cup of coffee outside."
“And it wasn't there then?"
“I'm not sure. It was awfully early, and Willard was out there with me, threatening to go into bark mode and wake up the neighborhood. I was keeping a close eye on him. As close an eye as I can muster early in the morning. I couldn't swear to it, but I don't think it was on the table then."
“So all we know for sure is that it wasn't there yesterday morning."
“Yesterday? Oh, yes. You and Missy and I sat out there."
“And were you out again yesterday or last night?"
“I don't think so. I let Willard and the cats in and out about a hundred times, but you can't see the table from the kitchen door that goes out back."
“The Purple Porcupine!" Shelley said suddenly. "What?"
“That little gift shop at the mall. That's where I've seen it."
“You're right. Last week when we were looking for something for Denise's birthday. There were about a million of them," she added sourly.
“And they've had them for months," Shelley added. "Anybody could have had one. I'm not so sure it means anything anyway."
“Neither am I," Jane admitted. "But taken with the extra copy of the book and the flowers, it's odd."
“I still think you're wrong about the book being a mystery. You just accidentally picked up somebody else's. And the flowers; are those the ones?”
Jane carefully picked up the arrangement from thecounter and set it in the middle of the table. "Pretty, isn't it?"
“Gorgeous. Set somebody back a pretty penny. Why don't you call the florist and ask if they have a record of who sent it?"
“I thought about it, but got interested in Priscilla and forgot to do it."
“Priscilla? Who's that?”
Jane took a deep breath and explained to Shelley about the concept of writing a book.
“Jane! That's the job answer, don't you see? If you're any good at it, you can do it in your own time, make some extra money. This is a great idea. What's the name of the book?”
Murder was forgotten for the moment.
“I don't know. There's a wolf in it, and I'd like to work 'wolf' into the title. It's a dark story, sort of gothic, and 'wolf' is a great word for that mood. But it can't just be Wolf for a title. It would sound like a publication of the National Geographic Society."
“Hmmm. Wolf whistle. Wolf in sheep's clothing. No. All wrong. Wolf pack—"
“No. Cry wolf?"
“Maybe. Depends on the story. Holding a wolf by the ears—"
“What's that mean?"
“It's Greek, I think. It's the same as holding a tiger by the tail. Gone to the wolves?"
“That's dogs. Gone to the dogs."
“Oh, yeah. She-wolf? Wolf bane? Wolf at the door?"
“Wolf bane ..." Jane mused. "I like that. Bane is a good word. Gothic, a little spooky and ominous. A hint of the psychic. What is wolf bane?"
“I have no idea. A plant, maybe? Or a drink? It couldn't be a place, could it?"
“No, I think it's a plant. I'll look it up. I like the sound of that. I hope it's appropriate and isn't a disfiguring disease or something."
“Good. We've solved one of the really important questions in life," Shelley said wryly. "Now all that's left is murder. Frankly, I don't think the birdcage and flowers have anything to do with it."
“You're forgetting the extra copy of Mrs. Pryce's book."
“I was trying to."
“But why would anybody leave the birdcage on the patio?"
“How about this: Somebody saw it, thought you'd like it, and came over to give it to you. Maybe, when they saw your car wasn't here, they sat down on the patio to wait and see if you came home soon. When you didn't, they left it for you."
“Without a note?"
“Didn't have a pen and paper along. She meant to ask you later if you got it and hasn't run into you yet."
“But everybody was in class but my mother."
“I don't mean anybody in class, Jane. Just some friend. Your uncle Jim—well, maybe not—or Suzie Williams. Maybe it was for Katie!"
“Katie doesn't have admirers who could afford a flower arrangement that cost a good sixty bucks." "No, but that's a different matter."
“Is it? I still think there's a connection.”
Shelley sighed. "All right. Let's suppose there is—only for a moment, mind you. I don't want to encourage these delusions. What would a book, a toy birdcage, and flowers have to do with the murder,and much more important, if they do have to do with it, why would someone give them to you?" "As hints? Clues?"
“But who would do that? The murderer? If he wanted to get caught, he'd just tell the police without you. And if he didn't, he wouldn't mess with you either."
“For the thrill of it? To increase the danger?" Jane said, but shook her head as she was speaking. "What if somebody else knows or thinks they know who did it?"
“Same questions," Shelley said. "Why tell you instead of the police, and why not say it right out if they wanted the person caught? Likewise, if they wanted to protect the murderer, they'd protect him instead of strewing clues around on purpose.”
Jane leaned back in her chair and stared past Shelley at Meow swishing his tail furiously, pretending there was a mouse under the stove. At least Jane hoped he was pretending. "All right. I give up. You must be right. But it is still strange, especially the flowers."
“I'll grant you that. But strange and murderous aren't synonyms. There's probably a boring, logical explanation for the flowers. Like the florist just delivered them to the wrong house by mistake. Now, we're going about this backwards. We need to consider the people as suspects, one by one. Go over everything we know about them and see if we can't at least eliminate a few."
“I have a lot of information about Grady that I haven't told you yet. Missy said I could, but only if you swore it would go no farther.”
Shelley dutifully swore, and Jane told her about Grady's wife and her relationship to Mrs. Pryce. She also added what Mel had said about Grady's wife being so far down the list of heirs that there was virtually no motive at all.
“Still," Shelley said slowly. "It might not be about money. It probably isn't, in fact. She didn't have that much, and nobody had any reason to suppose she had secret fantastic wealth." As Shelley was talking, she got up and went to Jane's refrigerator to pour herself some orange juice. Jane gestured, and Shelley fixed her one, too. "Jane, what if they'd had some terrible family blowup? Just imagine that she was responsible, in some peripheral way, for Grady's wife's accident. Might he not hate her enough for how she's wrecked up his life to kill her?”
It was Jane's turn to throw cold water on a theory. "Why wait till now? The wife's been in a coma for years, probably decades, if they married young."
“Maybe he just never got the chance before.”
Jane looked at her skeptically.
“Grady's got to be an awfully patient man," Shelley said.
“And a pretty stupid one if he couldn't think up a way to bump her off without waiting years to be invited to dinner with a mob of other people."
“Maybe you're right. All right, let's go through everybody then. Grady Wells—"
“Motive," Jane said, "possible revenge for—" "No, get a piece of paper. First, what we know, then the possibilities.”
Jane fetched a notepad and pencil—and let the cats in while she was up. She headed the page SUSPECTS. "Okay, what we know Grady could have had against her is that she was accusing him of embezzling city funds."
“And put under that, 'Not likely to be true,' "Shelley instructed her. "Then on the other side of the page, the possible theories like a family row involving his wife.”
Jane did as she was told, and they both sat and looked at the page for a while. "I'd give him a seven out of ten," Jane said. "For a real motive and a possible one." She wrote a 7 next to his name.
“Missy," Shelley said. "Real motive: Pryce accused her of writing pornography."
“Theoretical motive: to protect Grady," Jane said. "Another seven?"
“No! Missy's so nice, I'd feel like a traitor giving her a seven.”
Jane looked at her and spoke sternly. "This has nothing to do with liking people. We like everybody but Bob Neufield. This is a purely intellectual evaluation."
“All right. A seven."
“Maybe even an eight for both of them," Jane said. "Just on the grounds that they're both so damned good at keeping a secret. Not that having an affair is really underhanded, but the way they've kept it quiet does show a certain cunning."
“Seven and a half," Shelley said.
“Desiree Loftus.”
Shelley considered. "Pryce called her a drunk. If she is an alcoholic and knows it, that might have really gotten to her. And there's the means, too. All those herbs."
“Both pretty thin," Jane said. "I wouldn't give her over a three."
“You're forgetting the Paris connection that you were so het up about earlier."
“Oh, yes! Well, maybe with all three, a six? What about Bob Neufield?"
“A ten!"
“No, Shelley, intellectual consideration, remember?"
“Pryce accused him—we think—of homosexuality. To a military man, that would be a motive. Especially if it wasn't true."
“But she was raving. And Mel says his military discharge doesn't bear it out."
“That's what I mean. If he was discharged for some other reason entirely, he couldn't fight the slander with the truth, because it would be embarrassing, too."
“But she didn't even say it outright, like she did with Grady and the embezzling accusation. Shelley, I don't think we can give him more than a two."
“A two! With an arsenal in his back room?"
“She was poisoned, not blown up. I'll give him a three, if it will make you happy. Now, who else? Ruth and Naomi."
“One at a time. Naomi: Pryce was rude to her about her illness.”
They looked at each other, trying to think of anything else. "She collects cookbooks," Shelley added.
“Cookbooks tell you how to feed people, not how to poison them," Jane pointed out.
“Okay. Right. What if the blood disease she has is AIDS and she doesn't want anyone to know? You know how weird people are about AIDS. She could be a lot more sensitive to that sort of 'get away, you're contagious' talk than she let on. Don't look at me like that. I'm just theorizing."
“Two, tops," Jane said, writing the number down. "Then Neufield has to be more than a three." "What about Ruth?"
“No motive except secondhand on her sister's behalf. A one at the most."
“Don't be hasty. She's a very strong-minded woman. Takes action when it's called for."
“So do we, and it doesn't mean we're murderers." "Who's left? The maid.”
Jane put her pencil down. "She's a real unknown, isn't she? She could have tons of motives we'd never guess. Do you think maybe that's why they're keeping her in the hospital so long? A sort of subtle house arrest?"
“What's VanDyne told you about her?"
“Not much. And for all his apparent openness, he can keep confidences. He knew all about Grady's wife and didn't say anything about her. He might know all kinds of things about the maid."
“I think we have to give her a ten with a question mark.”
Jane looked at the list again. "Well, on the theory that it's the least likely person, it has to be Ruth or Naomi."
“Or you, me, or your mother. We're all zeros," Shelley pointed out. "Not even on the list, in fact." "Good point.”
Headlights swept the room as Jane's station wagon turned in to the driveway. Shelley glanced at her watch. "My God! Paul will think I've been kidnapped." She hopped up and headed for the
door, setting the empty juice glasses in the sink as she went. Jane stuffed her notes in the kitchen junk drawer.
Shelley opened the door and turned back. "Jane, you didn't tell me a thing about your date with VanDyne.”
Jane grinned. "I didn't, did I?”
1 9
Jane stayed up late that night talking with her mother and daughter. Not about the murder, but about practically everything else. At one point, Cecily asked Katie point-blank, "What do you think about your mother dating?”
That led to another hour of talk, some tears, a few feeble jokes, and a final understanding that Jane Jeffry wasn't entirely over the hill, and might as well go out with men occasionally—so long as those men knew that Steve Jeffry had been a saint.
Jane repressed the urge to remind Katie how she'd felt about her dad when he'd forbidden her to wear lipstick, or to go to the mall with her girlfriends. Shortly before his death, they'd nearly come to blows over whether she could wear jeans with the knees deliberately torn out. But then, maybe Katie would eventually forget about her tiffs with me as well, Jane told herself.
“I'm glad you got that out in the open, Mom," Jane said to Cecily as they climbed the stairs shortly before one o'clock.
“There's a lot you learn as a mother," Cecily said, yawning. "And there's a few things you don't understand until you're a grandmother. Like the benefits of just wading in and thrashing it out. I wish I'd done that when you were at home.""It's too late now," Jane said with a smile. "And not necessary anymore, I hope."
“I'm glad you waded right in.”
Cecily stopped midstep and took a deep breath. "Darling, I've learned something about myself lately. I'm a better grandmother than I was a mother."
“You were a wonderful mother. You still are."
“No. You're a much better mother than I was. You're always here for the children. I wasn't. I'm proud of you. I guess I should have said that a lot sooner. Good night, chickie.”
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