“Come on!"
“I mean it. I don't think she ever assessed much of anything. She hadn't many introspective brain cells. Yesterday when I asked her things about Bobby and Chet's relationship, she looked like it was a totally new concept to her. I honestly don't think she'd ever wondered about it until I asked her."
“Who was this boy's biological father?"
“I have no idea. Some kid she went to high school with. She told me she never saw him again."
“She could have lied."
“No, I don't think she knows how. Oh, dear. That sounds condescending. What I mean is, she could keep a secret, like Bobby's existence, because that meant just not saying anything. It didn't take cunning. But lying would take imagination, and hers was confined to Christmas ornaments and knitting patterns." At this questioning expression, she explained about Phyllis's interest in hand crafts. "That's sort of why she was here. At this house, I mean. I'm on the placement committee for the church Christmas craft bazaar—"
“Of course you are," he said.
“What does that mean?"
“Nothing at all," he said, stifling a smile. "Go on. You're on the placement committee—"
“The bazaar's being held at Fiona's house, and Phyllis came along to help, since she likes craft stuff and is wonderfully creative about it. Fiona told her about this house, and she came over and looked at it, then called somebody—I got the impression he worked for her husband—and asked him to take care of buying it and furnishing it right away. Now I have this awful feeling she was in a rush because she'd caught on that I didn't like her precious Bobby."
“Didn't she even consult with her husband?"
“No. She was leaving him. Or he'd sent her away. No! Don't get that look on your face! Chet would never have done anything bad to Phyllis. He adored her."
“You just said he'd thrown her out."
“It was just going to be temporary. I'm sure of it," Jane said, feeling she had to defend Chet,even though she realized how bad this looked for him. "You see, Phyllis was mad about this newfound son of hers, and I don't think Chet could stand him. She didn't say so, but I'm sure that's all that was wrong. My own guess is that Chet figured that Phyllis would see through Bobby sooner if they were off by themselves. And I believe she would have. He was so dreadful—she'd have run out of excuses for him before long. It's just supposition, but I think he probably felt their own marriage would suffer less in the long run if he let her make the inevitable break with Bobby on her own, without his interference. They'd have worked it out. I'm sure.”
VanDyne didn't seem impressed with her reasoning. "So you knew this Chet pretty well, too?"
“No, I hardly knew him at all. I'm just guessing what an intelligent, considerate man would do in these circumstances. I do know that he was both intelligent and considerate." VanDyne gave her such a patronizing look that she burst out, "Look, I freely admit I know nothing of police procedure, but I know every bit as much about human nature as you do. Probably more, and I knew these people as well. You didn't.”
VanDyne didn't apologize, but he had the good grace to look properly chastised. "So where was her son all this time yesterday while she was moving in—or having people do it for her?”
Jane felt better for telling him off, however mildly. "Buzzing around Chicago someplace in a rented Jaguar. We got back from the airport with the two of them around noon, and he was gone half an hour later. I didn't see him again. I imagine Phyllis got in touch with him somehow and told him where to come home. But he wasn't here when I came over with her and her luggage around nine."
“This man she called—who was he?”
“Hmmm, she called him George and asked for a poet—”
Mel VanDyne looked confused. "She called somewhere and asked to speak to a poet? Or she asked George to find her a poet?"
“No, it was a poet's name. Thoreau? Eliot? Chaucer? Defoe? I'll think of it in a minute. He wrote something about lilacs and Lincoln—Whitman, that's what it was. George Whitman.”
VanDyne looked up at the ceiling as if despairing of ever understanding her mental processes. "If you don't know where her husband is, I guess we better call this Whitman. Wait, you said her husband has a son or sons in Chicago? What about them?"
“Two sons. One lives in England, I think, and one of them lives around here someplace. His name is John Wagner, but I don't know the street address. I think, on the whole, it would be better to call this Whitman person and let him tell Chet and his sons.”
The book VanDyne had brought downstairs was Phyllis's address book. He handed it to her. She opened it and flipped to "W" where there was not only no Whitman, no Wagner, there wasn't anybody. Glancing through, she was saddened to see that fewer than half the letters had any listing. Poor Phyllis really had been isolated.
There were two women listed with Philadelphia addresses. Maybe a mother and sister or cousins or something. Working backward quickly, Jane found John Wagner under "F" for "family" and got clear to "C" before finding Mr. Whitman. He was listed under "Chet's office people.”
VanDyne was watching over her shoulder as she looked through the address book. If Phyllis's method of alphabetizing didn't convince him that the woman was out of touch, nothing Jane could tell him would.
“You'll call, won't you?" she asked when she'd finally found Mr. Whitman's number .
He looked at her with wonder. "It isn't a matter of social niceties. It's police procedure."
“Yes, of course. Poor Chet.”
While he was gone, making his calls, Jane went upstairs thinking it was only decent to straighten up Phyllis's belongings if the police were through with them. Certainly Chet would want to come get her things. At the top of the stairs, she heard voices from the bedroom at the left, so she turned into the one at the right. She had time for only two impressions before backing out. One, that it was a tiny bedroom, and two, that all that brownish red stuff all over the mattress was Phyllis's blood. It looked like someone had dumped a gallon or so of paint on the bed.
She stood in the hall, leaning against the wall, fighting down nausea, and realizing for the first time that she hadn't even asked how Phyllis had died. She breathed deeply through her nose, trying to fend off the dizziness that was catching up with her. Suddenly someone grabbed her arm.
“What are you doing up here?" Mel VanDyne asked harshly. "You're not passing out, are you? Come here. Clear the way, boys." He dragged Jane through the bedroom opposite the tiny one and yanked open the door to the little deck Phyllis had mentioned. Dragging Jane out into the cold, fresh air, he said, "Take a deep breath. That's it. Good. Another. Now, lean over."
“I'm all right now," Jane said after a moment. "Really. But I'm freezing out here.”
He led her back inside. It was a large, airy room with a double bed upon which Bobby Bryant was sprawled with a makeshift cold compress on his head. A burly officer was standing beside him, clearly ready to take care of any further misbehavior Bobby might dream up. Another officer was leaning against the wall just inside the doorway. Jane could see into the pink-tiled master bath next to the cozy sitting room area by the front windows of this room.
“I need an address where I can reach you," VanDyne said to Bobby as he got out his pen.
“I'm staying right here." Bobby's voice was slightly slurred and very belligerent. "Old Phyl paid for the place, and now it's mine."
“We'll see about that," Mel said, a muscle knotting in his jaw. Apparently he'd taken just as severe and instant dislike to Bobby as Jane had.
She touched Mel's arm. "I want to tell you something. Downstairs.”
He followed her down the steps reluctantly."He's the sort of individual who makes me long for the good old days of police brutality."
“What's he doing in that room?" Jane asked.
“Hell if I know."
“No, listen to me. It's important, I think. If you knew a house had only a tiny little bedroom and a big master suite and was going to be lived
in by a single woman and her teenage son, who would you expect to have the little room?”
Mel paused in midpace. "The kid. Yeah—"
“Only Phyllis was the kind of sap who let him have the big room. Now, if you'd been a murderer, prowling around in the dark to kill an obnoxious teenager in his sleep, which room—"
“You may have something."
“Something! That's it, and you know it. I kept asking why anybody would want to kill Phyllis. Well, nobody did. They wanted to kill Bobby and got the wrong person in the wrong room. Look, we've only known Bobby a few minutes each, and we'd both adore knocking him off. Imagine how people who knew him better must have felt about him. But Phyllis—nobody could kill Phyllis. Slap her out of sheer exhaustion, maybe, but not kill her."
“Possibly."
“You're only saying that because it was my idea. You know that's the solution."
“Good God, woman! Even if you're right, which I'm not admitting, it's not a solution. It's just a line of inquiry."
“That's 'Dragnet' talk again. I'm going home. When you want to know more, you know where I live.”
On that victorious note, she marched out the door.
She thought she heard a chuckle just before she slammed the door.
Twelve
Jane got in the station wagon and started the •' engine but found that she couldn't drive away immediately. Surprise was fading, and shock was setting in. Poor Phyllis was dead. Really and truly dead. In spite of her relatively calm discussion of motives with Mel VanDyne, Jane was deeply shaken. Shivering violently and wondering why her hands and feet felt oddly numb, she reached out and turned the car's heating system to high. She didn't trust herself even to drive for a few minutes.
Poor, poor Phyllis.
And the worst of it was, it was a mistake. More than just the enormous moral mistake of any murder; she was a victim by mistake. Jane was sure of it. Nobody could possibly want to kill Phyllis, but practically anyone who'd ever known Bobby would have to fight the impulse. Someone had given up the struggle—and killed Phyllis in error. It was, in a sense, Bobby's fault. It wasn't enough for him to ruin her good, longstanding marriage and make her show herself up as a soft fool. He was responsible for her death, at least secondarily.
Or was it only secondary?
Could Bobby himself be the murderer instead of the intended victim? He was probably capable of it, Jane judged from her slight and very unpleasant acquaintance with him. And he was showing no remorse. He hadn't pretended to give a damn about Phyllis when she was alive and wasn't acting the least bit sorry she was gone. But A tap on the window interrupted her train of thought. Swallowing a scream of surprise, she turned to see Mel VanDyne at the car window on the passenger side. She motioned him to get in.
“Are you all right?" he asked, seating himself and twisting sideways to talk. "I shouldn't have let you go like that. I was forgetting that she was your friend. Do you want me to take you home?"
“Thanks, but I'd just have to find a way to get my car back later. I'll be fine in a minute. I needed to sit and think. It isn't that Phyllis was such a terribly good friend, you know—”
Why did she feel she had to be meticulously truthful with him? What difference did it make?
“It's upsetting even when it's a stranger," he admitted. "Very upsetting."
“Then why do you do it? This job?”
He smiled, showing an indentation alongside his mouth that wasn't quite a dimple, but near enough. "To bring evildoers to justice? That's an embarrassing thing to admit. It sounds so unsophisticated, but it's true. Funny. I think you're the first person who ever asked me that.
Except for my parents, who said, many times, 'You're going to be what?' “
Being truthful sometimes paid dividends, Jane thought. "What will happen now?"
“I've got my men hunting down her husband. We'll question everybody in the neighborhood. We'll check on her background, the kid's, the husband's, the neighbor's, the kid's friends'. All routine stuff to start with."
“Can I help?" Jane asked.
He cocked an eyebrow. He had great eyebrows. Great teeth, too. Jane always noticed people's teeth. His were very white and just irregular enough to give his expression real distinction. And with that hint of a dimple that showed so rarely .. .
“I mean some kind of help that you assign and approve of," she said, trying to put aside thoughts of how attractive he was.
“As a matter of fact, you may be able to. I've been thinking about the husband. If, as you say, there was just a temporary rift in the marriage, he's going to take this hard. He's got family and business friends, but he might well want to talk to you, since you spent that last day with her. I don't figure the obnoxious kid will be much comfort. Can you be on hand? To help with funeral arrangements and that sort of thing, if he wants?"
“I'd be pleased to. About Bobby—"
“You're wondering if he killed her himself, aren't you? So am I. Don't worry, Mrs. Jeffry. These things do occur to me."
“Detective VanDyne couldn't you please call me Jane? It makes me feel very old and frumpy to be called Mrs. Jeffry."
“Sure. I'd like to—Jane. It suits you. I'm Mel.”
“Short for Melvin?"
“Even worse. Melton My mother's maiden name. I've always felt she had a cruel sense of humor."
“Oh, here comes Fiona. She's the neighbor to the south who called me and said you were here. She didn't know it was you, of course, but—"
“I get it." He shifted around and hunted for the door handle. "I'll call you later, Jane."
“Yes. Thanks. I mean—" What an ass she was being! She wasn't a kid anymore, and he didn't mean he was going to call her for a date or something, for God's sake! He was just going to call in connection with his duties as a detective. Jane felt herself blushing.
He'd stopped, presumably to introduce himself to Fiona, and as he walked back to Phyllis's house, Fiona opened the car door. "Jane, please come inside. I hope you don't mind my presumption, but I called Shelley when I saw you sitting out here alone. Are you all right?"
“Fine. I'm glad you called Shelley."
“What happened to the boy?"
“It wasn't Bobby. It was Phyllis. She's dead.”
Fiona put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no. Your friend! Oh, Jane, I'm so sorry. How awful for you. Come right inside.”
Fiona got Jane comfortably settled in her kitchen with a plaid wool blanket over her knees and a hot water bottle under her feet. She seemed to be operating on the premise that ifshe could get Jane warm, everything else would be solved. In other circumstances, Jane would have been amused by these terribly civilized antics. As it was, she was feeling stupefied by recent events. The heat was making her sleepy, too. If only she could go back to bed and get a new start on this day with no bad news.
Fiona had just handed her a cup of hot, strong, sweet tea when Shelley rushed into the kitchen. "Fiona, your maid let me in. Dear God, what's happened. Jane, are you hurt?"
“No, it's Phyllis. She's dead."
“Oh, no!"
“Was it a heart attack?" Fiona asked, pouring another cup of tea for Shelley. "She looked quite healthy, and she wasn't old. Only our age, wasn't she?"
“It wasn't a heart attack. It was murder.”
“Murder!" Shelly and Fiona said in chorus. "She was stabbed, I think. There was a terrible amount of blood."
“You saw her?" Shelley asked. "Jane, how awful—Fiona!”
Fiona had staggered against the kitchen counter and was slowly crumpling. Jane and Shelley leaped forward together, caught her, and managed to get her into a chair. Forcing her head down between her knees, Shelley whispered, "I should have warned you. She's funny about blood. I saw her nick her finger once cutting a radish, and she keeled right over into the salad."
“I'm so sorry," Fiona said, sitting up straight. "How utterly stupid of me." The color was returning to her face, and she gave herself a little shake before standing u
p. "Jane, sit back down, and cover yourself with that blanket. You still look chilled.”
Jane willingly did as she was told, not that she would mind falling into a restful little faint for a few minutes.
Shelley sat down across from her. "Jane, what do you know about this? Who would kill Phyllis, and why?"
“They don't know. I think it was a mistake. I mean, I think whoever did it meant to kill Bobby, not her." She explained about the rooms and about Bobby having the master suite.
“I don't know. That assumes the killer knew the layout of the house," Shelley said.
“Not necessarily," Fiona commented, now recovered. "You can tell from the outside that the bigger room must be the one that adjoins the deck. In fact, the way the staircase is set up, you'd assume the smaller room was just a closet or something unless you opened the door. I used to take food and magazines over occasionally to the old lady who lived there, and I was quite surprised to discover that it was a bedroom.”
Shelley nodded. "All right. So somebody tried to kill him and got Phyllis by mistake. Who would that be? Aside from anybody unlucky enough to have met him. God! The police must have a world of suspects."
“There's another possibility," Jane said. "What if Bobby himself did it?"
“Is he really that awful?" Fiona asked with amazement. "She was his mother!"
“I've read that most murders are committedby family members," Jane said. "I think he could have done it. What I don't see is why he would. She was his meal ticket."
“But he didn't have the sense to treat her well," Shelley said. "If he'd had any brains at all, he'd have been buttering her up. He'd have been buttering us up, for that matter, to impress her."
“Meal ticket? What do you mean?" Fiona asked.
“That's right. You don't know the story of how she came by him, do you, Fiona?" Jane explained what she'd learned the day before about Bobby's origin.
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