Jane considered. "Doesn't sound bad. Do we get to wear our jammies all day?"
“Sure. If we play our cards right, we might even talk somebody out of wheelchairs, and we wouldn't even have to walk anyplace."
“Would our families be able to visit us?"
“I certainly hope not!"
“It wouldn't work for me. My mother-in-law, Thelma, would take over my kids."
“So let her. It would serve her right."
“Yeah, but she'd convince them of her theory—that I was really a pathetic slut their father married out of pity."
“Well?”
Jane laughed. "Gotta go. Anything I can do for you while I'm out?"
“Nothing. Oh, yes. I'm trying to fix that gingerbread house that got the corner smashed. I'm out of powdered sugar."
“I've got some. Just help yourself."
“And go in your house? With your company? Have you lost your mind?"
“Bobby's gone. Only Phyllis is there." At the sight of Shelley's raised eyebrows, she added, "I'll buy you sugar. Say, Shelley, do you know John and Joannie Wagner?"
“You already asked me that this morning. I've been thinking about it. I know a Joanne Wagner. She and I are putting on the P.T.A. tea next week. You know her, too. She's the one who made all those grapevine wreaths for the bazaar. Hard-working, lovely voice, and very pleasant but dumpy, defeated looking.”
Jane understood this to apply to Joannie, not the wreaths. Now that she'd been reminded of who she was, she thought about Joannie Wagner as she headed toward the junior high. Jane knew her very slightly and had never made the connection between her and Phyllis or even between her and the aggressive volleyball player she was married to. Poor Joannie Wagner was a beaten-down sort of woman. Her hair was always curled, but badly. Her makeup was never quite right somehow. She wore expensive, but ill-fitting clothing and gave the general impression of a scared rabbit. Of course, she was a rabbit. What else could you be if you were married to John Wagner? You'd have to have the stamina of an Amazon and the temperament of a wolverine to assert yourself around a man like that.
She hoped Phyllis wouldn't be able to find him to invite him over. The last thing Jane needed was John Wagner in her house. If only she could go back to when she stupidly made that halfhearted invitation to Phyllis to visit. But as she pulled into the school parking lot she realized that, even knowing what was in store, she'd have probably done the same thing. Phyllis and Company might be not be any fun, but Phyllis needed a friend and considered Jane to be one.
Ten
It was a rare and treasured morning that Jane didn't have to drive at least one school car pool. Even when her schedule wasn't thrown off by something like the electricity going out, with three children going to three separate schools that started at three different times, it took planning worthy of General Motors to work out a system that left her free to slop around in robe and slippers on an occasional morning.
This was such a morning. Jane had risen earlier than usual to get a head start on putting out the Christmas decorations. She got out the crèche and set it up on the table just inside the living room doorway. She dragged some greenery in from the garage where it had been waiting, encased in plastic and sprinkled with water, for two days. Draping it along the mantel above the fireplace, she then dug through the Christmas storage boxes until she found the string of twinkle lights she wanted. She put the traditional red tablecloth on the dining room table and set out her collection of Santas from around the world on the sideboard.
Unfortunately, that was all the further she'dgotten by the time she had to get the kids stirring. Now she leaned on the kitchen counter watching the driveway for Mike's ride to arrive. Mike, her high schooler, was in the middle of the kitchen floor trying to force a tuba into its elephantine case. He was mumbling angrily, and Jane was being very careful not to hear the exact words. If she did, she'd have to be motherly about his language, and he was under enough pressure already.
“You wouldn't think a tuba could actually grow overnight, would you?" Jane said, trying to cheer him up.
Mike looked up at her and said scathingly, "Mom, do you realize if I can't get this thing to fit, you'll have to drive me? I can't make everybody wait.”
Jane abandoned cheerfulness. "I don't see why not. I wait nearly every morning I drive for Scott to finish combing his hair. Cram the thing in. I'm not driving anybody anywhere today."
“You could let me have the car," he suggested.
“Not if you set my hair on fire."
“That's not fair, letting him have the car," Katie said, galloping down the stairs with Jane's purse in her hand. "Can I have five dollars?"
“What for, and I'm not letting Mike drive, and what difference would it make to you if I did?”
Katie ignored all but the first of this. "The ninth-grade field trip to the Art Institute. You said I didn't have to pay school things out of my allowance."
“Agreed, but how can it cost five dollars to ride a school bus to town?"
“Mother, there's lunch," she explained condescendingly.
“Take five. Not a penny more. Mike, your ride is honking. Todd, what did you do with the skin?" she added, noting that her fifth grader had cut up a banana into his cereal, and there was no sign of its original container.
“I dunno," he said, tearing his gaze away from the cartoons on the kitchen television long enough to glance around the table and his lap.
Jane had been vaguely aware of thumping and thrashing in the living room for some minutes and went around the corner to look. As she feared, Willard was there, tossing the banana skin around with a puppyish abandon that ill became a grown dog. "Willard, give me that thing!" she shouted, lunging at him just as he flipped the banana skin up onto the half-finished afghan. This dislodged an indignant Meow, who had been curled there, happily milk-treading the soft yarn.
“Pets are supposed to lower your blood pressure," Jane complained to no one in particular as she stuffed the banana skin down the disposal. "My blood pressure is about to blow the top of my head off. Katie—are you ready? Did Mike leave?" she added to Todd. He didn't reply, but the tuba and case were gone, so the eldest must have left.
Katie was shaking some Rice Chex into her hand—and a few on the floor that Willard was inhaling. "What happened to your friend, Mom?
Wasn't she supposed to stay here? You made us clean our rooms and everything."
“No, she stayed in the house I told you about. If you'd come home for dinner instead of staying at Jenny's, you'd have known all about it. And in the future, when you're going home with Jenny, you have to tell me in advance.”
Katie ignored all the references to her transgression the afternoon before. "You mean she just bought a house just like that? Neat. Denise Nowack said her mom said your friend's son was really cool looking. You should have kept him here."
“That was fair-minded of her. I assume Mrs. Nowack must have also mentioned that he's a creep."
“Yeah, but that's mom-talk," she said, stuffing another handful of cereal into her mouth. "Can we go over tonight so I can meet him?"
“Not if I can help it. Isn't that Jenny's mother honking?”
Katie flew past, her backpack full of books catching the milk carton at the edge of the counter. It bounced on the floor and shot a white geyser across the room. "Sorry—" Katie's voice was cut off by the door closing behind her.
The phone rang. If that was somebody asking her to drive Todd's group, she was going to pretend they had the wrong number. "Yes?" she said cautiously into the receiver.
“Jane, this is Fiona. I'm sorry to call so early, and I hope I'm not alarming you unduly, but there's something going on next door. The house your friend moved into last night—"
“What kind of something?"
“Well, there's a police car over there, and an ambulance just drove up. I heard some teenage voices late last night. You don't suppose something's happened to her son, do you?"
“Oh,
my God! I'll run right over. Thanks, Fiona.”
Jane ran into the little bathroom off the kitchen, grabbed a big towel, and threw it at the milk on the floor. It had formed a lake, and Willard and both cats were standing at the shore, lapping.
“What's wrong, Mom?" Todd asked between slurps of cereal.
“I don't know. I think my friend who came to visit yesterday is sick. I've got to run over there. If your ride isn't here by the time I'm dressed, I'll wait with you."
“Oh, Mom. You don't have to. I'm not a baby!"
“No, but you're my baby, kiddo," she said, ruffling his hair as she ran by.
Upstairs, she kicked off her slippers and slithered out of her robe and T-shirt style nightgown and flung herself into underwear, jeans, and a red, hooded sweatshirt. A glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed her fear that adequate cosmetic help would take too long—possibly days. She looked like she'd been left out in bad weather overnight. She made do with a quick smear of lipstick and a swipe at her hair with a hairbrush. She heard a faint, "Bye, Mom," and the slamming of the kitchen door as she was putting on her boots.
She ran down the steps, grabbed her mystery-fur jacket from the front hall closet, and started looking for her purse. Where would Katie have left it? Ah, next to the refrigerator. She was hampered by the fact that Willard and the cats were pacing around the kitchen in the happy anticipation of being fed now that the kids were gone. "You've got to wait, guys," she told them as she flew out the door.
By the time she got to Phyllis's new home, there were three police cars, plus the ambulance, and a familiar red MG. Damn! That was Mel VanDyne's car, and she looked like the dog's dinner. Someone had strung a thin yellow plastic banner across the front yard that said, "Police Line—Do Not Cross.”
Jane got out of the car and paused to get her breath. It wasn't easy. Her heart was racing, and she was feeling sick. Police line—Detective VanDyne—ambulance. Something terrible must have happened to that horrid Bobby Bryant. Had he invited some of his former friends from the city to his mom's new house and got‑ . ten beaten up? Or had he already had a run-in with Mr. Finch next door? Poor Phyllis. As much as Jane disliked Bobby, she hated for Phyllis to be unhappy, and Phyllis would be miserable if something had happened to her darling.
Stepping over the yellow strip, she went to the house, aware of the multitude of other neighbors peering from front windows up and down the street. An officer was just coming out of the front door as she approached. "Lady, do you live here?"
“No, but a friend of mine does.”
He leaned back inside the door. "Hey, Mel, there's somebody here who knows these people.”
Mel VanDyne came to the door, took one look at Jane, and said, "Oh, no.”
Not precisely the reaction she would have liked from a man she was planning to invite to Christmas dinner. She had met the handsome (and somewhat younger) detective a few months earlier when he was investigating a murder. Jane herself had been instrumental in catching the murderer.
VanDyne had called her assistance "damned dangerous meddling.”
Jane had called it "solving the case.”
But along the way, Jane had decided that when she was ready to throw herself back into the word of dating, she'd throw herself in Mel VanDyne's direction first. As yet, she hadn't gotten the nerve or the opportunity. Now here she was, frayed and bedraggled, and he was greeting her with "Oh, no."
“Mrs. Jeffry, do you really know these people?”
Jane bristled. "I wouldn't be butting in otherwise. It's my friend Phyllis Wagner and her son, Bobby Bryant."
“Come in, then. But don't touch anything. Just sit down for a few minutes, would you?”
The living room was bare of furniture as yet, but there was a lovely table and six matching chairs in the dining room next to it. A police officer had some forms spread out on the table and was having a cryptic conversation with a walkie-talkie. Jane sat down obediently and waited for Mel, who had gone up the stairs. She ought to go straight to Phyllis to help comfort her, but she knew if she started wandering around the house, Mel would have her head.
As she waited, a medical attendant called down the stairs to his co-worker, "Bring me that extra blood pressure cuff, would you? This one's sprung a leak.”
At least Bobby wasn't dead, if they were taking his blood pressure. Probably not even hurt too badly, judging from the man's tone. Of course, those guys weren't supposed to act hysterical, but he'd sounded downright casual. The other attendant went back to the ambulance and then upstairs. A moment later, both of them came down carrying a stretcher.
The body on it was completely covered.
Jane looked away quickly. Poor, poor Phyllis! To have found her long lost son, only to lose him. What in the world had happened to him?
Mel came back down the stairs carrying a little book of some sort. He pulled up another chair and said, "Could you look through this address book and tell me who ought to be notified of the death?"
“It was an accident, wasn't it?" Jane asked.
Mel cocked an eyebrow. "I don't normally get sent out when people slip in the bathtub or fall off ladders. No, it was no accident. It was murder. I'm sorry, Mrs. Jeffry. Are these people goods friends of yours?"
“Not really. I'd never heard of Bobby until yesterday, and I hadn't seen Phyllis for fifteen or sixteen years. Poor Phyllis. How's she doing?"
“I beg your pardon?"
“How's she taking it?”
Mel paused a moment, then to Jane's astonishment, he took her hand. "I guess you'd say she's taking it badly. She was murdered.”
Eleven
"Phyllis—murdered!" Jane gasped.
• "I'm afraid so," Mel VanDyne said, withdrawing his hand, which she'd clutched so hard his fingers hurt. "Why did you assume otherwise?"
“I don't know. But—but—how? Why? Who?"
“That's what I hope you might help me find out. That is," he put up his hand in a "stop" gesture, "help me just a little.”
Jane was still too stunned to understand the implication. "Where's Bobby, then?"
“Upstairs. Recovering. He's about half drunk and half hung over and he's been violent. Fell over trying to attack one of my men, and hit his head on the door frame. He'll be okay. Why did you think he was the one who'd died?"
“Just because he's so horrible, I guess. Do you have a cigarette?" He handed her one and lit it for her. "I'm trying to quit," she said, exhaling. "Fiona Howard called me. She seemed to think it was Bobby. Who in the world would want to kill Phyllis? She never hurt anybody in her life. This is awful."
“We'll find out. Don't worry. Now, you can help by telling me about her. What was she doing here? The local police have this house listed as vacant. They've been keeping an eye on it periodically to prevent a break-in."
“It was vacant, until last night." She drew a deep breath, trying to compress an explanation of who Phyllis was into as few words as possible. Among Mel VanDyne's traits was a certain tendency to regard Jane's explanations as wordy and full of trivialities. "Phyllis and I knew each other seventeen years ago—"
“Seventeen years—?" he said brokenly, as if expecting a day by day accounting of the entire duration.
Pruning it to the minimum, she got the story out.
“Now, let me get this straight," Mel said after he'd thought for a few minutes. "Mrs. Wagner and her husband have no children together, but he has two sons from a previous marriage, and she had one she'd given up for adoption: this Bobby Bryant. Where's her husband?"
“I'm not sure. Possibly on the island where they live, but he wasn't there when she left. She told me that. He could be anywhere in the world. He has international business interests. You don't think he had something to do with this?"
“I'm not thinking anything. Just asking questions."
“Come on, that sounds like a line from 'Dragnet.' “
He smiled. "Just where I learned it. You like it?" He went to the kitchen and returned with a sauc
er for Jane to use as an ashtray. "Tell me about Mrs. Wagner. What was she like?”
“I don't know, really."
“But you said she was coming to stay with you for Christmas."
“No, she was going to try to. But I was determined it wasn't going to happen when I'd met Bobby. As it was, she didn't stay with me at all. We went over to help Fiona Howard—the big house on the triple lot next door—with something, and Fiona mentioned that this house was for sale, and Phyllis bought it. It was Fiona who saw you over here and called me."
“Yesterday? She got here yesterday, saw a house, bought it, and moved in—all in the same day? That sounds like something from Willy Wonka."
“I know it does. I thought so while it was happening. I don't know that she'd actually bought it yet, but she called some man to take care of it, and she met him and her husband's son John over here to sign some papers around six o'clock last night. Maybe she just signed a letter of intent and a rental agreement. I don't know. I wasn't with her. I just gave her my car to use while I was fixing dinner."
“So she moved in then?"
“No, she came back and had dinner with us, and I brought her back over about nine—after some people delivered furniture and bedding and stuff."
“People with furniture. She sees the house, buys it, and gets it mainly furnished in one day? Are you serious about this?"
“I know it's weird. See, Phyllis had been used to having tons of money and just telling people to get things done. And they got done.”
“She was overbearing, then?"
“No! Not in the least. It was like she thought that's how everybody lived. She was poor when she married Chet, but she was also very young, and he made lots of money fast. I think she'd just gotten used to living that way and forgot about things like weighing decisions and counting your money and shopping for bargains and waiting for things you want.”
Mel was unconvinced. "The way you talk, either she was incredibly stupid or—"
“Or I'm making it up? She wasn't stupid. At least not as stupid as she must seem to you, hearing about her. She was just out of touch with reality. It seemed that Chet Wagner adored her beyond belief. He took her off to his own little fantasy world. They didn't have television, and she was never much for reading, so it was easy for her to get out of touch with real life. I don't think she ever consciously realized she was rich."
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