“Yes, some time ago. I was trying to get him to contribute to building that park at the old Orville Wagner homestead."
“Orville Wagner? Any relation?"
“No.”
That put to rest the discrepancy between how callous and tacky John Wagner had seemed to Fiona and how agreeable he'd been during the course of the investigation. He hadn't been trying to name the project after himself, as Fiona thought. Relieved, Jane took the picture she'd stolen out of her shopping bag and handed it to John Wagner. "Now, this is to the point. Do you recognize this?”
It was the band picture.
“Sure," he said. "Phyllis showed it to me dozens of times."
“Yes, me, too, when we lived downtown so long ago, but I'd forgotten until today."
“I didn't know she had a framed copy," John said. "Why is this kid circled in the back row?”
“What is it?" Mel asked.
John handed him the picture. "It's a shot of the high school band. Phyllis was one of the cheerleaders in the front row. See, the second from the right. She was incredibly proud of being a cheerleader. It was one of the high points of her life."
“So?" VanDyne said impatiently.
Jane said, "John, would you open her yearbook to that page? Just to make sure. These band pictures look so much alike. When I first saw it, I had the feeling I'd seen it before, but I thought it was because they all look the same.”
John took the yearbook out of the needle-pointed case. It fell open to the page. The three of them studied it carefully. It was identical.
“So what?" Mel repeated. "She had a framed shot besides the one in the book."
“No, she didn't," Jane said. "The framed one is from the Howards' house. Look at the yearbook. What's the name of the boy in the top row who's circled on the framed one?”
Mel took the book and ran his finger along the list of names below the picture. "Richard Devane," he said.
Jane dragged out the book she'd just bought: Richie Divine: A Star Extinguished. She flipped it open to a page near the front she'd marked. She read aloud, " 'Richie Divine, born Richard Lewis Devane, was the second of two children of a middle-class Philadelphia family. He took an early interest in music. Drum and trumpet lessons from a neighbor paid off first when he got a position in his high school marching band.' "
“So you're saying this kid became Richie Divine, and Phyllis had gone to school with him," John said, perplexed.
“Not only went to school," Jane said. "I think she married him.”
Mel had fumbled in his pocket for a small notebook. He flipped a few pages and looked up at her with amazement. "I had Bobby's birth certificate run down. She listed the father as Richard Louis Devane. Different spelling of the middle name, but maybe she didn't know there were two ways to spell it. Did she tell you she was married to him?"
“No. She only said they hadn't known each other all that well, and after the marriage was annulled, she'd never seen him again. No—no, that's not exactly what she said—" Jane closed her eyes, remembering the conversation. Phyllis had paused for a long time and said they'd never met again. Jane had thought at the time that she'd hesitated because she'd never considered the question Jane had asked. It wasn't that. It was a woman unused to lying trying to come up with a truthful, but misleading answer. And she'd succeeded brilliantly. They hadn't met again, but she had certainly seen him. Most of the world had seen him—on television, in a movie, posters, and record jackets. "She told me they had never met again. But that was before I took her over to Fiona Howard's house."
“God! She moved herself and Bobby into a house next door to the widow of his biological father," John Wagner said.
“Are you suggesting that Mrs. Wagner was trying to get something out of Mrs. Howard because she had given birth to Richie's son?" Mel asked. "From everything I've heard about her, it seems unlikely."
“No, that wouldn't have been possible for Phyllis," Jane said. "There's something else you have to know. I feel awful telling you, and you've both got to swear on your lives that if I'm wrong, you'll never, ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Promise?”
Both men nodded. It was obvious that they were surprised by the revelations so far, but not convinced they meant anything.
Jane leaned forward and spoke so softly they could barely hear her. "Phyllis didn't move in next door to Richie Divine's widow and her second husband. She moved in next door to Richie Divine and his wife. Albert Howard is Richie Divine. He didn't die in the plane crash. He was reborn as someone else."
“That's impossible," Mel said with a laugh.
“It isn't. Stop being so patronizing. You're the one who told me there weren't identifiable bodies found. The parts of the plane were never even accounted for. Remember?" Jane said.
“You mean he wasn't on the plane?" John asked. "Why not?"
“I have no idea. Maybe he just decided at the last minute to stay back with Fiona. It was almost Christmas. The next concert wasn't scheduled for three days," Jane said, tapping the book she'd bought. "It's all in here. Maybe they decided to let everybody think he was already in San Francisco and drive down the coast in a rented car without anybody knowing who he was. It could have been something like that. Then, when the accident happened, they saw it , as an opportunity to be safe forever by keeping up the illusion that he'd been killed. There wasn't any problem with money. Royalties—or residuals, or whatever they're called—from his records would keep coming in for years, and Fiona would inherit everything he'd already accumulated—" She stopped, sensing that she'd I lost half her audience.
Mel was staring across the room. "Or—or he could have known the bomb was on the plane."
“What do you mean?" Jane asked. "He wouldn't have let the others take the risk if he'd known. And how could he have known?”
Mel gave her a long, level look.
John Wagner answered. "He could have known if he'd arranged it.”
Jane nodded. It was a thought that had been swimming malevolently in the deepest, darkest part of her mind, but she hadn't allowed herself to recognize it.
The waitress, a perky girl with a gleam in her eye, bounced over to give them their bill. She tried to flirt with VanDyne but was firmly rebuffed. When she'd gone, John Wagner spoke again. "So after years of hiding the truth and probably feeling pretty confident that nobody would ever discover it, he suddenly has Phyllis, his first wife, turning up."
“Talking a mile a minute about her son, a boy exactly old enough to be Richie Divine's son," Jane said.
“How do you know she was talking about Bobby?" VanDyne asked.
“I heard her. Sweet, gabby, completely indiscreet Phyllis," Jane said softly.
“And she recognized him?" Mel asked.
“I think she must have, but maybe not right away. I'm sure he recognized her. When he came in the room, he looked like he'd been hit in the head with a hammer. I thought at the time it was because the room was such a mess, but it must have been the sight of Phyllis. Fiona had to force him to take Phyllis over to look at the house next door. He didn't want to. He was almost rude about it. But when he came back, he was really mellow. Like he'd sorted it out. Maybe they'd talked about it, and she'd agreed not to tell anyone."
“She would agree," John said. "But I don't think she could have stuck to it. She was too open."
“That must have occurred to him later," Jane said.
Mel said, "We've skipped over a vital part of this whole thing. Why do you think Albert Howard is Richie Divine? There's no resemblance. How would Phyllis have recognized him if the rest of the world hasn't? And what made you think of it?”
Jane told them about the church choir and elaborated on her theories about plastic surgery and age.
“But if you're right, it's only because you heard him sing and have a good ear. It doesn't account for Phyllis knowing him. I doubt that he hummed a few bars of 'Red Christmas' as he was walking her over to the house next door."
“But she knew him fair
ly well. She'd been married to him, if only for a short time. Besides, I think it's more likely that Albert himself gave it away. He knew her. He probably had fond memories of her, and he must have at least suspected that the son she talked about might be his. He and Fiona have no children. Getting to know a son is a powerful incentive for a middle-aged man to give himself away."
“And then have second thoughts about his own welfare," Mel said. He picked up the bill, glanced at it, and dug in his back pocket for his billfold. "All right, Jane. I think you've got something"
“That's big of you to admit," Jane said.
“Let me have all this stuff," he said to them. Jane handed over the framed band picture and the book she'd bought. John Wagner gave him Phyllis's yearbook. "I'm going back to the office to see what else I can run down. Mr. Wagner, I've got to ask you to keep this to yourself for a while longer. I know you're anxious to tell your father, but—"
“I understand. It might be raising false hopes. Besides, my dad might tear over there and try to take Albert Howard apart with his bare hands. Don't worry. I won't say anything yet. But when?"
“If there's any of this I can confirm, it shouldn't take more than a few hours," Mel answered.
“Just one thing," Jane said, scooting out of the booth. "Please don't ruin the bazaar."
“What?"
“It's only got a few more hours to run. We close down at six-thirty. A lot of people worked awfully hard on it. Please don't ruin it."
“Jane, you've got the weirdest priorities," Mel said. "All right. I won't make a move until six-thirty, but how am I going to explain that to my superiors? I'm sorry, boss, but I couldn't make an arrest until the last of the Christmas ornaments had been sold—”
Jane gave him a smile. "It's important to me.”
“All right, but make sure you close down at exactly six-thirty.”
John Wagner left them, and Mel walked Jane to her car. She paused with her hand on the door. "Mel, I don't much like myself for all this. What I've done to Fiona—”
He put his arm around her in a bracing manner. "It isn't what you've done, Jane. And you've got to think about your friend Phyllis, not Fiona Howard. You've done the right thing.”
She looked up at him. "I know. It just doesn't feel very good.”
Jane realized on the way back from the mall that she couldn't explain to Shelley what was going on. There wasn't the time or privacy to tell her the whole story, and it wasn't something to tell only a part of. The rest of the afternoon was endless. She stayed at the busy sale table in the front hall most of the time to keep her mind from endlessly circling what she'd done. She didn't see either Fiona or Albert all afternoon, but every time she heard a voice raised, she imagined it was Fiona discovering that the band picture was missing.
At quarter of five, she ran home for a minute. "Mike, drive me back to the bazaar, and you can have the car to get dinner. Here's some money."
“Aren't you going to be home?" he asked, grabbing his coat before she could change her mind.
“Yes, but not until later. I'll find a ride.”
When she returned, some of the other workers were beginning to consolidate what was left of the sale items into two rooms. They also marked things down brutally. "Another rush will start any minute," Shelley said. "People on their way home from work. We have to unload everything we can.”
At six, the last crew of volunteers set out to retrieve all the signs in the neighborhood. At quarter after, they put a CLOSED-SEE YOU NEXT YEAR sign on the front door and locked it. The few shoppers remaining picked over the last goods as the workers slashed prices right and left. At twenty after, Albert came through the hall in his coat and boots.
“Where are you going?" Jane asked. Dear God! Was he escaping the net? No, of course not. How could he know?
“I put your cartons in the garage, and the roof has leaked. They're all wet, and you'll need dry ones to pack what's left," he explained. "I'm running up to the grocery store to get some."
“Oh, there's no need. I'll do it."
“No trouble," he said. "Is there something wrong? You look awfully pale."
“It's nothing. It's just been a long day.”
She watched him leave, feeling helpless.
By twenty-five after, the shoppers were gone. Only Shelley and two other volunteers remained. "You can go on along," Jane told the other two. "Shelley and I can manage."
“But Jane—" Shelley began, but seeing the stricken look on her friend's face, she stopped. "Yes, Jane's right. We'll take care of packing up.
Jane saw them to the door and as she opened it, found herself facing Mel VanDyne. "It's six-thirty, isn't it?" she said needlessly.
He looked grim. "Mrs. Jeffry, would you ask Mr. Howard if I could speak to him?”
It was as if they were strangers. "He's not here. He's gone to the grocery store to get some cartons," she said in the same impersonal tone.
“Then perhaps I could speak to Mrs. Howard while he's gone.”
Shelley came into the hall, smiling. The smile faded as she saw Jane and Mel facing each other with set expressions. "What's wrong?”
Mel turned to her. "Are you the only worker left besides Mrs. Jeffry?" Shelley nodded. "Would you mind leaving—quickly?"
“Of course. Jane, are you coming with me?”
“Yes."
“No," Mel said. "Not quite yet. I'll see that she gets home.”
At that moment, Fiona came down the stairs. "Is everybody gone? How did we do? Would you like to help counting money or packing things—oh, it's Detective—uh—"
“VanDyne, ma'am. Could I have a few words with you?”
Fiona turned very pale. "Actually, it's not a good time. Perhaps later?"
“I'm afraid it has to be now," VanDyne said. "Yes, very well," Fiona said, turning toward the family room.
Shelley watched her go, then mouthed to Jane, "Albert?”
Jane nodded miserably. Mel took her elbow and guided her along behind Fiona. Jane heard the front door close as Shelley left and had a mad urge to turn and run. Mel must have sensed the impulse. He tightened his grip on her arm. "I need a witness. My uniformed man slipped on the drive and is in the car whimpering over his wrist," he whispered.
When they entered the family room, Fiona was sitting on the sofa where Jane had sat earlier. She, too, was staring at all of the pictures. "Jane, there's a picture missing," she said a small voice.
“I know. I took it," Jane said.
Fiona looked at her for a long moment, then said, "You know, don't you."
“Yes, Fiona. I know who Albert really is." Jane felt sick.
“What do you want?" Fiona said to VanDyne.
“I want to talk to your husband about the deaths of Phyllis Wagner and Bobby Bryant.”
Fiona stood and walked to the wall, putting her palm on the spot where the band picture had been. Jane wished she could curl up and disappear.
“You don't, of course, have to talk to me at all," Mel was saying. "As his wife—”
She turned quickly and looked at him. "You don't need to talk to Richie. He didn't kill those people—I did.”
Twenty-six
"What!" Jane's exclamation came out as a strangled cry.
Mel practically shoved her into a chair and then turned back to Fiona, saying very smoothly, "Why don't you sit down, Mrs. Howard, and tell us about it.”
Fiona shrugged. "I might as well."
“Don't you want to call a lawyer?" Jane asked.
Fiona ignored her. Mel had taken a card out of his jacket pocket and was reading her rights. She didn't act like she heard him or cared. He took a small tape recorder out of another pocket and put it on the coffee table. Pushing a button to start it, he said, "Do you understand that I'm recording what you're about to say, Mrs. Howard?"
“Yes, I understand."
“And you agree to be recorded?" Mel looked as surprised as Jane felt.
“Yes."
“Please tell me in you
r own words what happened," he said, slowly sitting down. He moved and spoke as if in the presence of a wild animal that might take fright and flee at any quick moves. Jane remembered him saying something days ago about needing a confession, because there might be such a lack of hard evidence.
Fiona glanced at him, then at Jane, then looked out the windows and spoke in a flat tone. "Mrs. Wagner was my husband's first wife. The marriage was annulled, and he didn't know until last week that there had been a child. When she came here and I suggested that he show her the house next door, he recognized her. On the way over, she told him about her son—their son."
“Did Mrs. Wagner know right away who he was?" VanDyne asked.
“No. He told her. He told her," Fiona said. She looked years older, like the mother of a grown child who has done something very stupid. "You see, Richie isn't very good at—at protecting himself. He was so excited at the idea that he had a son, that he admitted to her who he was. It was very foolish. I couldn't trust anyone else to keep our secret. I've done so much all these years to keep everyone from knowing. Did she tell you, Jane?"
“No, she didn't tell me. I realized when I stood next to him in the choir."
“The choir. I told him not to be in it, not to take the chance, but he loved it so much. He really loved singing, you know. He didn't care nearly as much about the fame and the money as the sheer joy of singing. It was the only thing I couldn't give him. No, I didn't give him children, either. I think he would have liked children....”
Her voice trailed off into a long silence. Mel broke it by saying softly, "So you killed her to keep the secret? Tell me about it."
“There's not much to tell. That night after Richie went to bed, I waited until the boy came home. I knew he was drunk from the way he was singing. I waited another hour to make sure he was sound asleep, then I went over there. I knew my way around the house from helping take care of the old lady who used to live there. I almost went into the wrong room, but the boy was talking in his sleep, so I knew he had the big suite. I went in the small bedroom and killed her with a knife I'd picked up in the kitchen. I had one of my own with me, but I didn't want to use it." She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes for a long moment. The only sound in the room was her breathing.
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