“The one Fiona didn't want us to use? Oh, well, it's probably just coincidence that the kid is playing that record. I heard it on the car radio on the way over. It's played a lot this time of year."
“Still, what's the point, aside from making sure nobody misses the fact that he's a nasty little bastard?" Shelley asked, closing the door and shooing them back to the kitchen table. "Let's eat lunch and act like we don't hear it. For Fiona's sake."
“I always enjoy it when I can eat for someone else's sake," Suzie said, serving herself a large dollop of chicken salad. "The calories don't count that way. Just like they don't count if you eat them before seven in the morning or on a holiday—national or religious. I'm not sure about state holidays."
“I wish my thighs observed those rules," Jane said, helping herself to some food. "Wow, this is terrific. It's got little green grapes in it. Where do you suppose she gets such nice ones this time of year?"
“Sorts them out of cans of fruit salad?" Suzie suggested.
Fiona rejoined them a few minutes later, looking as cool and unruffled as the proverbial cucumber. The music was still audible, but they all pretended they didn't notice. "Albert so seldom tries to take a nap in the middle of the day. He gets positively savage when someone interrupts it," was her only comment. "Have some more banana bread, ladies. If you leave any, I'll eat it all, and you'll have to roll me out of this chair.”
Doggedly ignoring the music—it wasn't the single, it was the whole Richie Divine's Greatest Hits album—they finished lunch and went back to work. Fiona got busy shifting some of the tables into better positions and draping them with the rented white tablecloths. Suzie, under Shelley's direction, appointed herself to takeeach box to the room in which the contents would be sold. Shelley sat on the floor, making a rough sort of inventory of each item as Suzie took it away, and Jane started printing up prices on a sheet of sticky labels for the crocheted wreaths. "I think we ought to give one of these free to anybody who buys more than a certain amount," Jane said. "You could pin them on their coats as they go out the door."
“Good thinking. I'll put half of them by the cashier, and some people may pick them up as one last thing before their stuff is rung up."
“Impulse buying. Right."
“Oh, my God, will you look at this quilt," Shelley said. "It's gorgeous. And it's already marked at—at twenty-five dollars! That's criminal. It ought to be at least a hundred and fifty. Think how beautiful this would look in my guest room. I'm going to buy it myself for two hundred, but we'll hang it up marked SOLD, just because it's so pretty.”
Jane tried hard not to give in to envy. Would she ever be able to impulsively buy anything for two hundred dollars? "Where should I put this jelly?" she asked.
Shelley turned on her. "Jelly?" she asked suspiciously. "Is it from Marijo Fisher?"
“Yes, what's wrong with that?"
“Oh, nothing, except it's Marijo's little ploy to rip us off every year. I thought I'd made clear to her that I wasn't letting her get away with it again."
“I don't get it. How does she rip us off with jelly? It looks good."
“Oh, it is good. It's fantastic. She sends over four or five piddling jars, then gives people delicious samples. Of course, the four or five jars are gone in no time, but samples keep miraculously appearing, and she takes orders for about a billion more."
“So?"
“Not for the bazaar fund, Jane. For herself. She earns the church ten bucks and a couple hundred later for herself. It infuriates me. Is her phone number on there? I'm going to have a word or two with her." She stormed off and returned a few minutes later looking like a general who'd had an unusually good day crushing invading armies. "It's all taken care of," she said serenely.
Jane was afraid to ask. - After another ten minutes, Jane said, "Is that music as annoying to you as it is to me?"
“It isn't that loud. Imagine if it were spring and the windows were open. Still, I wonder why nobody's called the police to make him shut it off.”
Fiona passed the doorway carrying a stack of linens and looking miserable.
“I'm not going to let him do this to her," Jane said. She threw on her coat and slipped out the front door before Shelley could reason with her. Stomping down the long drive, along the sidewalk, and up to the house next door, she leaned on the doorbell and knocked a few times for good measure.
Bobby came to the door wearing his usual smirk. "Yeah?"
“I've come to ask you politely to turn off that music. If you don't, however, I'm going to havethe police come and talk to you about it, Bobby."
“It's a free country," he said as if he'd thought up the concept himself. "Don't you like rock? Would you rather have a little Fred Waring?" He sneered.
“I happen to like Fred Waring. And I also like Twisted Sister, but at a reasonable level and when I want to listen to it. Right now I don't think the whole neighborhood wants to let you make the choice for them. Turn it off!"
“I'll think about it," he said with an obnoxious chuckle before slamming the door in her face.
Jane got back to the Howards' house fueled by pure rage. "If Phyllis is in heaven, she's probably still trying to explain herself for having given birth to such a monster!" she said as Shelley opened the door to her. "I'm calling the police on him."
“Jane, I'm all for self-assertiveness, but I don't think it's smart to mess with that kid. He could be a murderer, you know."
“Clear the way," a voice behind a vast stack of empty boxes said. It was Suzie. "Get the door for me. I'm going to put these out in the garage.”
Jane and Shelley stood arguing halfheartedly for a minute more. Suzie came bounding back. "Hey, guys, you gotta see this.”
Shelley grabbed her coat, and they followed Suzie along the path that ran between the Howards' house and Bobby's. Before they could see what was happening, they could hear the argument. Mr. Finch was standing at the front door, waving his arms and screaming unintelligibly in a high voice. They couldn't see Bobby, but they did see his fist suddenly pop out and catch Mr. Finch on the chin.
“Jane, do go call the police," Shelley said. "And miss this? Not on your life," Jane replied.
Finch had tumbled into the snow but picked himself up with lightning speed and flung himself toward the door and out of sight. A second later, a bundle of humanity with four legs and four arms rolled down the steps and into the yard. They thrashed around ineffectually in the patchy snow for a moment, apparently not doing each other much harm. Just as Jane was about to give up watching and run for the phone, a siren wailed over the sound of Richie Divine's voice. Apparently someone else had seen the fight coming or had gotten fed up with the music.
A police car pulled to a sudden stop in front of the house, and two uniformed officers ran across the lawn and separated Bobby and Mr. Finch without too much difficulty. "Show's over, ladies," one of the officers called to them.
Jane blushed with embarrassment.
Suzie had a much higher embarrassment threshold. "Sonofabitch," she muttered with heat. The three of them hurried back to the house, and Suzie continued. "Couple of wimps. I could have beaten them both.”
Fiona was at the door. "What in the world became of you?”
They told her about the fight.
“Oh, dear," Fiona said, sounding defeated. 'This is all so unpleasant, and I hold myself toblame. If I hadn't mentioned that house was for sale, it would still be nice and vacant. What if something awful happens while the bazaar is going on? We can hardly expect people to pick their way through a full-scale battle to buy a few Christmas things."
“We'll worry about that if it happens," Shelley said briskly. "There won't be a bazaar if we don't get back to work.”
Nothing more was heard from next door. The music stopped a few minutes after the police arrived. The four women worked in peace all afternoon. The only interruption was John Wagner dropping by to tell Jane that there would be a funeral service for his stepmother at ten o'clock the
next morning. Fortunately, Fiona's maid, Celia, showed him in directly to where Jane was working, and he didn't cross paths with either Fiona or Albert.
“Dad thought about having her buried from the old church they went to when they lived in the city, but I talked him into having it out here." He made no reference to the events of the night before, and neither did Jane.
“Do you want me to come along to the funeral?" Shelley asked when he'd left.
“Good Lord, no! You promised to fight the crowds with me to do some Christmas shopping tomorrow afternoon. That's all anybody could ask of a friend."
“I'm so glad you realize that. Now, about pricing these fruitcakes—”
Shelley had to drive a car pool at three, Suzie at three-thirty, and Jane at three forty-five, but each returned to finish off one job or another.
They sat down for a last slice of Fiona's banana bread and a cup of coffee at five, confident that they had the bazaar situation well in hand.
If only the rest of life could be handled by hard work and organization, Jane thought longingly. How unutterably sad that Phyllis couldn't have been with them. It was exactly the sort of day she'd have loved. What had Mel VanDyne been doing all day while they sorted and priced Christmas knickknacks? Jane wondered. Was he any closer to finding Phyllis's killer?
Nineteen
Jane got up Saturday morning far earlier than necessary. It was refreshing to enjoy the illusion of having the house to herself. The kids were all sleeping late, so she didn't have to worry about running out of hot water before she was through showering, about fighting Katie for the hot curlers, or about having to drop everything and drive somebody to school before she'd booted up her brain. No music blared from stereos, no cars honked impatiently in the driveway, nobody ran through the house wildly searching for lost books or lunch money or permission slips.
Bliss.
The first order of business was to get ready for Phyllis's funeral. She was going to wear her charcoal gray suit and black silk blouse. Shelley had bought it for her for Steve's funeral last winter, and this was the first time since then that she'd worn it. She got it out and put it on with a certain amount of dread. After all, the associations were grim. Yet she looked in the mirror and was surprised to see herself smiling a bit. This wasn't the same woman who wore the suit last February. That Jane had been blotto—emotionally and physically wiped out.
Everybody had been so sympathetic and mistaken then. That was the hardest part—to act the role of a woman who had lost her loving partner, when inside she was raging with rejection, furious at his disloyalty, and despising herself for her own stupidity and failure.
But this was a new woman wearing the charcoal suit. Under Shelley's dictatorial guidance, she'd streaked her hair, gone in for regular perms, lost a little weight, and learned a bit about makeup, although mascara still made her feel like she had raccoon eyes. "Eat your heart out, Steve," she told the mirror and felt a little tingle of vindication.
It was only eight-thirty when she went downstairs for a quiet hour of finishing up the afghan. While she was feeding the animals, she heard the soft purr of a car in the driveway and was surprised—and pleased, for once—to see the red MG. Imagine Mel VanDyne catching her at her best, instead of her worst. It might be a sign.
When she opened the front door to him, she was gratified to see the look on his face. "Mrs. Jeffry—Jane, I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.
“Not at all. Come in." She led him to the living room, deliciously aware that he was staring at her. "Please, sit down. Could I get you anything? Coffee?"
“If you have a Coke around, I could use a caffeine fix."
“I can do better than that. The kids have something that's got tons of caffeine. It's advertised that way. She came back with a glass of ice and a can of something with a lightning bolt on the label.
He took a sip and grimaced happily. "If you don't mind my saying so, 'you look mauwvellous! "
“Thanks," Jane said with a laugh. "Nice of you to notice. I know it's considered very old-fashioned to wear dark colors for funerals, but I just can't throw on a pink dress for one. My mother taught me too well."
“Does your mother live here?”
She wondered why he was being so chatty but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "No, my mother lives all over the place. Right now she and my father are in a little country in Africa. They're State Department. My dad has a positively spooky gift for language. He can start speaking almost anything the day he first hears it, so they've spent their life all over the world, wherever our government wants to hear what's being said."
“Did you grow up that way?"
“Oh, yes. In fact, when my husband and I moved here, it was two years before I could bear to unpack the last suitcase and put it in the basement storage. Force of habit—I was so sure I would have to move again. What are you doing here this morning?”
She'd taken him off guard. "Why, I—I wondered if you wanted a ride to the funeral. No, that's not the truth. I wanted to ask you some questions, too."
“About what? I've already told you everything I know about Phyllis."
“It isn't about her." He paused a moment, then went on in a brisk, professional tone. "This morning, about five, when a trash-hauling company picked up their dumpster behind the shopping mall, there was a body beside it. Bobby's.”
Jane felt her bright perkiness fade as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. "Oh, no. How did he die?"
“Stabbed. From behind. Somebody must have taken him completely by surprise."
“Behind a dumpster at the mall? What on earth was he doing there? Besides getting killed?"
“That's probably all. I imagine he was supposed to meet someone.”
Mel was silent as Jane rummaged in the end table drawer until she found a stale cigarette. He leaned forward and lit it for her. She sat back and took a long drag. "It's odd," she finally said, sensing that he was waiting for her to say something. "I'm not surprised or sad, because he was probably the most hateful, obnoxious person I've ever known. But in another way, I am sorry. It's just not right to stab people in the back because they're awful."
“I've always sort of felt that way," he said wryly.
“It certainly blows my theory of Bobby being Phyllis's killer. Unless Chet—" She caught herself thinking out loud.
Mel VanDyne laughed at her discomfiture. "Do you honestly think that wouldn't occur to me? Don't be so careful what you don't say. It won't stop me from thinking, but what you do say could help."
“All right. Unless Chet killed him as revenge."
“I take it you've talked to Chet Wagner."
“Oh, yes—" Jane told him about the evening she and Shelley went over to pack Phyllis's things and found themselves in the midst of a dispute between Bobby and the Wagner father and son.
VanDyne was dumbfounded and displeased. "Why in the world didn't you ask an officer to go with you? You could have put yourselves in a dangerous situation."
“I don't know. It sounds a lot stupider now than it did at the time. I guess we just weren't thinking. Still, it was an interesting experience, to say the least.
“Did you get the feeling that Chet Wagner honestly believed Bobby was responsible for his mother's death?”
Jane thought for a long moment. "That's hard to say. I'm certain he held Bobby to blame for the circumstances which brought about her death, but to be honest, I think he'd have mauled him on the spot regardless of witnesses if he'd thought Bobby actually killed her. He was furious, but it was Chet himself who kept John from attacking Bobby."
“Did John Wagner think Bobby was responsible for her death? Is that why he tried to attack Bobby?"
“No, it was because Bobby said Chet was going to be blamed. I think he was outraged on his father's behalf, and of course Bobby had hit on his worst fear. Bobby was being absolutely revolting."
“Hmmm. Tell me again about this will business. When I inquired, Mr. Wagner said
his will and his wife's were with a lawyer on the island, and he authorized us to request a photocopy. It should be here today. He seemed quite cool about it. Of course, that was before Bobby dropped his bombshell."
“But if there was another more recent will, the earlier one wouldn't be valid anyway. Actually, I'm not at all sure it wasn't all bluff, just to further insult Chet. The only convincing part of it was that he said she came out of the lawyer's office with a 'blue folder thing' she was putting in her purse. That sounded true, or at least possible. I don't think he had the wit or imagination to make up convincing little details like 'blue' and 'folder.' He'd have just said 'papers' if he was making it up, I think. I knew a girl in school who was a really good liar, and she got away with it because there were always all kinds of tiny, vivid, believable details in her stories. You bought the details, and before you realized it, you'd bought the whole story."
“I think that's characteristic," Mel said shortly.
Jane realized she'd been wandering off the main point again, a habit that annoyed him. "However, there wasn't a will or anything that looked like one in her things," she continued. "We went through everything—not snooping—well, yes, snooping—and the only paperwork was in a needlepointed case. One envelope in there contained memorabilia. Family pictures, high school yearbook, birth certificates, that sortof thing. The other envelope was all craft stuff. Patterns, order forms from yarn shops."
“Yes, I saw that."
“I thought you probably had. Her purse, too?"
“Yes. There wasn't anything incriminating in it. If there actually had been a will and she'd had it in her purse in New York, where could it have gone? Was it a direct flight, or did they go someplace else on the way here?"
“I believe it was direct. She could have put it in a safe deposit box there or mailed it to someone."
“She could, but why would she?”
There was another long silence before Jane said, "Hadn't we better get going? Did you mean it about driving me to the funeral, or was that just a ploy to catch me off guard so I'd burst into hysterical tears and admit to killing Bobby?"
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