Silence of the Hams jj-7

by Jill Churchill

  “Hi, Jane. Sorry I wasn't in the shop yesterday when you stopped by," LeAnne said. LeAnne was a plump, pretty woman in her thirties with naturally curly reddish hair and freckles. She still had on her church clothes and a grocery cart full of mostly house brands. A careful shopper, Jane thought.

  “Oh, we just wanted to say hi, nothing important," Jane said.

  “You've heard about Emma Weyrich, I guess," LeAnne said, lowering her voice.

  “We have," Shelley said neutrally. "Awful, isn't it?"

  “Are you still dating that detective, Jane?" LeAnne asked.

  “Uh-huh," Jane said warily.

  “I guess he tells you all about his cases.”

  “Afraid not," Jane said.

  “Is he investigating Emma's death?" Le- Anne asked, undeterred.

  Jane saw no reason for concealment. "Yes, he is."

  “How was she killed? This morning's paper j ust said a blow to the head.”

  “Some kind of barbell thing, I think," Jane replied. That, too, would soon be public information if it wasn't already.

  “I guess they went over her apartment pretty carefully," LeAnne said. "I wonder if they found anything — helpful.”

  Jane shrugged. "I have no idea. I know they search really thoroughly."

  “So you don't know what they found?”

  “Me? No. Mel wouldn't even consider shar‑ ing inside information with me," Jane lied. I wish he were here, Jane thought. He'd be impressed. And very interested in LeAnne's questions.

  “It must be really interesting dating a detective," LeAnne said in a terribly perky tone.

  “It's weird to be dating at all," Jane said.

  “I know! When Charles and I were separated, I dated a bit and it was strange. My ice cream's melting. I guess I better run along. Nice visiting with you." On this almost hysterically chirpy note, she wheeled her cart away hurriedly.

  Shelley said, "Do you suppose she thought she was being subtle?"

  “Did you see her hands?" Jane asked. "She was clutching the handle of the grocery cart so hard I expected it to crumple."

  “The only thing her questions didn't tell us was which color folder was hers," Shelley said.

  “Poor LeAnne," Jane said. "She probably had one an inch thick. Think of all the dirt she must have dished about Charles during the divorce."

  “But Jane, could anybody as pathetically unsubtle as LeAnne commit an actual murder and manage to even get out of the room without giving herself away? After the performance we just saw, I can imagine her running out in the hallway and looking for people totell, 'You haven't seen me here, have you?' “

  Jane laughed. "There would have to be a huge amount of evidence to convince me she could carry it off. Still, for as silly as she was just being, there's more to her than that. Just look at the dedication and determination it's taken for them to pull themselves out of bankruptcy and get a whole new business started? Not to mention the intelligence it takes. It can't be all Charles's doing."

  “Sure it could," Shelley said, picking up the cream cheese she'd come in for and moving toward the checkout. "And maybe that's what she's afraid of. That Charles was the one Emma had an appointment with.”

  Jane fell silent while Shelley made her purchase. Once they were back in the car, she said, "You could be right, you know. I hardly know Charles, do you?”

  Shelley shrugged. "No. Paul had some dealings with him years ago when Charles was still with that investment company or mortgage company, whatever it was." Shelley's husband, Paul, was, among other things, the owner of a chain of Greek fast-food restaurants that he'd started from scratch.

  “What did Paul think of him?"

  “He said Charles was bright and ambitious enough, but didn't seem to think he was spectacular in any way. A nice guy. I'll ask him again, but I doubt he'll have much more to add. It was about the land for one of the restaurant franchises and I think they met only once or twice over some routine details. Not a situation where you'd get to know someone intimately.”

  Jane nodded. "Shelley, would Paul have any special insights into the deli's business?"

  “He might, but it doesn't seem to have anything much to do with the deli anymore, does it?"

  “I don't think so, but who knows? Conrad and Sarah have led a pretty strange life and Stonecipher might have known something about them, too."

  “How could he? They only came back here recently and as soon as they did, they started the deli and he started his zoning war. It's not likely they ever considered being clients of his."

  “True. But maybe he dug up something about their past when he was trying to shut them down. Drugs or something? They lived a pretty hippie-dippy life for a long time according to Grace. Maybe they didn't pay their taxes or something like that."

  “Yes, but if he had anything on them, wouldn't he have used it to apply pressure on them before the deli could open?" Shelley asked.

  “I guess you're right. He really did pull out all the stops to try to keep them from open‑ Shelley started the van. "I feel like a rat in a maze that hasn't any opening. Every time I think about this, I end up at the same dead end."

  “Which is?"

  “Stonecipher's death," Shelley said, backing out ruthlessly and ignoring the uproar of honking this caused. "It's too coincidental that both Stonecipher and Emma would die under suspicious circumstances without there being a connection. But why would anybody want to make a natural death look like a murder?”

  14

  They'd gone only two blocks when Jane noticed a car at the side of the street. The hood was up and an older man was looking into the engine. "Hold it, Shelley," Jane said. "Isn't that Foster Hanlon? Let's stop and help. We might pry something interesting out of him."

  “I'd like to pry the old bastard's guts out of him," Shelley said.

  “Come on, Shelley. You can stand a few minutes. Keep in mind that he was with Stonecipher at the deli. Right on his heels.”

  Grumbling, Shelley pulled over and backed up, and the two of them got out of the van. Hanlon was a small, wiry man who could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. He had thinning yellow-white hair; a stiff, erect carriage that was almost military; and a face that was a road map of fine wrinkles. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a white shirt so heavily starched it probably crackled when he moved.

  “Mr. Hanlon, have you got engine problems?" Jane asked.

  He straightened up so quickly that he bumped his head on the hood. "Oh, yes. Well, I think so. I'm sorry to admit that not only do I know very little about cars, but I don't even know who you are.”

  It was, on the surface, a reasonable, inoffensive sentence, but Jane found it obnoxious. She was tempted to say, "Oh, we're just a couple neighborhood muggers, stopped to beat and rob you." Shelley's grim expression hinted that she was thinking along the same lines.

  “I'm Jane Jeffry and this is Shelley Nowack. Do you need—"

  “Jeffry. Jeffry? Oh, yes. The house with the driveway that needs repairing," Hanlon said. "And Mrs. Nowack is next door. You could use a bit of paint on the trim around your windows, Mrs. Nowack."

  “And you—" Shelley began.

  Jane elbowed her and said, "I don't know anything about engines either, but we'd be glad to give you a lift to a service station. Wouldn't we, Shelley?"

  “Oh, of course," Shelley replied with dangerous cheerfulness. "By way of the nearest sheer cliff," she finished under her breath.

  “I — well, what I really need is a lift home. I've got groceries in the car that are melting. If you wouldn't really mind."

  “Not at all," Jane said. "We'll just help you put them in the back of the van.”

  He had a surprising number of grocery sacks, including one holding two bags of ice that were already beginning to drip. "Mrs. Nowack, you are aware of the speed limit here, aren't you?" he said as Shelley took off like a rocket.

  She slammed on the brakes, flinging him forward. "Oh, I must have forgotten f
or a moment," she said sweetly. "You didn't get hurt, did you?”

  The rest of the way, he acted like a demented tour guide. "There's an example of neglect," he said. "Perfectly sound house but the cracks in the foundation are just being patched instead of getting to the real problem. And over there. That yard is a disgrace. There are more dandelions than grass. No excuse for it. Causes grief for all the neighbors who keep their lawns nice. It's not that much trouble. Just mowing, seeding, fertilizing, weed killer, occasional de-thatching — the neighborhood association has a nice pamphlet on proper lawn care for anybody who needs it. I keep a stack of them in the car and drop them off to people when I see their lawns suffering neglect."

  “I wonder," Shelley said dreamily, "if anybody has done studies on a possible connec‑ tion between neighborhood associations and the neo-Nazi movement?”

  This remark seemed to genuinely puzzle him and he was quiet for a bit.

  Jane leaned forward on the pretense of finding something on the radio and whispered to Shelley, "We're trying to find out about a murder, not commit one!”

  His house was just what Jane would have expected. It was an oversized Cape Cod, immaculately kept. The windows gleamed as if polished only moments before. The paint almost looked as if it were still wet. The lawn was lush jade-green and still showed the tidy diagonal mowing marks. You could have eaten off the driveway. A row of neat forsythia bushes bordered both sides of the lot separating him from his neighbors. They'd been trimmed into tortuous cubes of precisely the same size.

  “Let me take this ice inside for you," Jane said. She was determined they wouldn't just drop him off and go on their way. Shelley understood and sulkily picked through the bags in the back of the van for the lightest one.

  The inside of the house matched the outside. It wasn't stark, in fact there were a lot of pictures, ornaments, and furniture, but everything was so clean, fresh, and geometric that it seemed unreal, as if it had been created on a computer. The sofa in the living room was precisely positioned in front of the empty, spotless fireplace in which there had obviously never been anything so sloppy and uncontrolled as a fire. Two matching chairs sat at exact right angles. A stack of National Geographics on the coffee table were in date order and each was offset an inch and a half from the others.

  Jane wondered if there was a wife who went along with this and had the vague recollection of having heard that Foster Hanlon was a widower. She took the bags of ice to the sink, punched a hole in the bottom of each to drain out the melted water, and opened the freezer door. There, not surprisingly, banks of frozen vegetable packages were neatly stacked. She was afraid to look too closely for fear of finding that they were actually in alphabetical order.

  “Go ahead and call the service station," Shelley said. "We can put this away for you," she added with a gleam in her eye.

  Hanlon looked disconcerted by this upheaval in his tidy life, as well he should. The moment he left the kitchen, Shelley set a package of cereal in with the canned goods and added a package of paper napkins before closing the door with satisfaction. It would take him all day to get everything back the way he wanted it.

  When he was through phoning, Jane and Shelley had everything put away. Somewhere. "They're picking me up in about ten minutes," he said.

  “Oh, good," Jane said cheerfully. She settled in at the kitchen table with a vacuous expression. "It's been an unusual week for you, hasn't it? For all of us, really."

  “Has it? In what way?" he asked, reluctantly sitting down across from her. Shelley took the chair between them.

  “Well, with Robert Stonecipher's death and then Emma's."

  “Emma?" he asked.

  “Emma Weyrich. His assistant," Jane said. "Hadn't you heard?"

  “No, I'm sorry, but I don't even recognize the name," he said.

  “Surely you knew her," Shelley said. "She came to the deli with you and Mr. Stonecipher."

  “I went to the deli opening on my own," he said firmly. "Oh, that athletic young woman. Is that who you mean? What happened to her?"

  “She was murdered," Jane said. Surely someone as nosy as he must know this. "Oh?" he asked. "Where?"

  “In her apartment," Jane said, curious why he'd asked the question.

  “Oh, well — an apartment resident," he said. "I've never approved of apartments in goodresidential areas. It brings in the aimless, irresponsible element of society. When you aren't a property owner, your interest in the welfare of the community is seriously diminished.”

  Jane and Shelley gawked at him. Jane was the first to recover. And to steer the conversation in a different, potentially more useful direction. "I don't see how you could not know who she was. After all, she was Stone-cipher's assistant. You and he must have worked pretty closely together on the zoning." She fumbled for a word other than "outrage" and could only come up with "thing."

  “I wouldn't say we worked together. We had a common interest in that particular problem, naturally, as should the whole neighborhood," he said, apparently offended. "But Mr. Stonecipher and I were certainly not close friends or frequent companions.”

  Shelley raised an eyebrow. "So you didn't like him much?"

  “No, I didn't say that," he said carefully. "It was merely that we had only a few, very specific things in common. Like the problem of the deli. Unfortunately, he had a most unpleasant personality."

  “Did he?" Jane asked. "I hardly knew him at all. What was he like?"

  “Very opinionated—" Foster Hanlon said.

  Jane nudged Shelley with her knee to keep her from exploding.

  “—and unwilling to listen to other views," Hanlon went on. "In fact, I had rather strong words with him over his proposal to put in bicycle lanes. He felt strongly about it, of course, but was blind to the fact that it would have been terribly expensive to widen the roads and repave them. It would have meant condemning a few feet of property along the entire length of the routes he proposed. The way the city code is drawn up in regard to benefit districts, it would have raised taxes so that the very people who were losing their land would have ended up paying for the loss.”

  Shelley said, "I presume this street was one of the ones he wanted to widen."

  “Yes, but that's not the point!" he said defensively.

  “He lost that battle, didn't he?" Jane said.

  This soothed Hanlon. "Yes, I'm glad to say he did. But I believe it was only a temporary setback. He would have brought it up again, I feel certain. Do you know, I heard he was planning to propose that the city council be increased in number and was going to try to get some of his adherents on. Sort of like" — he lowered his voice as if uttering an obscenity—"Roosevelt trying to pack the Supreme Court."

  “How interesting," Jane said. "Where did you hear that?”

  He replied warily. "I don't recall exactly. Several people mentioned it to me.”

  Jane had a sudden bizarre vision of groups of neighbors holding secret meetings in a deserted farmhouse at night to think up false rumors to pass along to Foster Hanlon just to drive him crazy. Driving dark cars and wearing trenchcoats. Meeting by candlelight with the windows covered. Speaking in whispers. The image tickled her and she couldn't help but smile.

  Hanlon glared at her. "You find this amusing?"

  “No, no. I'm sorry. I was thinking about something else entirely," Jane said. "So you didn't come to the deli opening with Mr. Stonecipher?"

  “No, I didn't." He kept glancing at his watch nervously, hoping for someone to rescue him, Jane assumed.

  “Why did you go at all?" Shelley asked. He drew himself up. "It was, I believe, a public event. I was as entitled to come as anyone else."

  “Of course. But why did you want to go?" Shelley persisted.

  “To see if the zoning regulations and health codes were being observed," he said. He seemed proud, rather than ashamed, of him‑ self. "This dreadful intrusion of a retail business in a residential neighborhood could be catastrophic to our property values. Yours and m
ine! And they're not even respectable people."

  “Who's not respectable? What do you mean by that," Jane said, her amusement fading.

  “The Bakers. They're hippies. That's what I mean. Oh, yes. They started out here, but they didn't absorb any of the family values of the community."

  “Excuse me?" Shelley said.

  Anybody else would have backed off at her tone, but Hanlon plowed on. "They're just fly-by-nights. No permanent home until they came here. You mark my words, they'll soon trash that place and trash the whole neighborhood. Pretty soon they'll start hiring blacks and Mexicans and—”

  Shelley suddenly stood up and headed for the front door. "I'm sorry, Jane. This is all I can take.”

  Jane was right behind her, with Hanlon bringing up the rear, making insincere remarks of gratitude for the lift home mixed up with further warnings about property values and the shortsightedness of people who made no effort to protect their investments.

  The two women leaped into the van and sped off.

  “I feel like I need to soak in a vat of disinfectant," Shelley said when she pulled into her driveway. "I've already thought of at least sixteen really nasty things to say to him and I'd like to drive straight back there and say them all."

  “And none of them would make the slightest difference," Jane said sadly.

  “No. A bigot is a bigot is a bigot. Ugh! What a thoroughly, bone-deep nasty person he is. Why did you make us do that?"

  “To see if we could learn anything, of course."

  “Did we?" Shelley asked with disgust. "Anything we wanted to know?”

  Jane thought for a minute. "Only that he wasn't great chums with Stonecipher—"

  “The man's never been chums with anyone. Who could stand him for more than five minutes?"

  “—and that he didn't seem to know who Emma Weyrich was.”

  Shelley waved this away, still furious. "Come on, Jane, if you thought you could get away with pretending you didn't even know her, wouldn't you? Not you, of course, but if you were he?"

  “That's a hideous thought. Being him," Jane said.