Keeping an eye on Shelley, who looked shaky, she picked up the phone, thought for a minute, then dialed Dorothy Wallenberg's number.
“Dorothy! Thank goodness you're home. I need a couple favors. Something awful has happened. Shelley's cleaning lady has — has died. Yes, it's terrible. Yes, just now. I'll tell her you said that. Just at the moment, I'm the one who needs some help. Please, would you pick up Todd for me and take him home with you? And call everybody who's supposed to be coming tonight to the meeting at Shelley's house and tell them it's been canceled. No, I'm not sure—”
She glanced at Shelley, who had balanced the cigarette on the edge of the table and was leaning over with her head between her knees, breathing deeply. "I can't ask her, Dorothy. Just call anybody you think might have been coming. I think Laura Stapler has a list of the committee members. Start with her. Thanks, Dorothy.”
Shelley stood up and went to the window, swaying slightly. The wail of the first siren stopped abruptly, and through Jane's kitchen window they could see that there was one officer sprinting around the far side of Shelley's house and another coming around the near corner. They had their guns drawn. Another, having apparently parked on the next street, vaulted nimbly over the back fence and headed, crouching, toward the basement door that opened out of the back of the house. Jane could hear at least two other sirens. "Dorothy says if there's anything you need or want, just call her.”
Shelley turned away from the window, sat down, and pushed her hair back from her face. "That's nice of her," she said with mechanical courtesy.
Jane's phone rang and she answered curtly. "Yes?"
“Jane! This is Mary Ellen. I just looked out the front window. What's wrong at Shelley's?"
“The cleaning lady's been killed. The killer may still be in the house."
“Edith? Killed?"
“Yes — no, not Edith. It was a substitute. Somebody strangled her."
“Oh, my God," Mary Ellen said, sounding nearly as bad as Shelley did. "What can I do? Is Shelley all right?"
“She's not hurt. You can't do anything. Just stay in the house until it's over. I'll talk to you later.”
Shelley was rummaging in the cabinet for Jane's jar of instant coffee. Meow jumped onto the counter to see what was going on that might provide nibbles for her. There was no sign of Willard. Probably hiding in the basement.Hands shaking, Jane turned on a burner and started some water boiling. They didn't speak. Jane had a strange nightmarish sense of reality and horror interwoven. Next door, a dead woman lay in the guest bedroom and police searched the house. Here, they were silently making coffee, as if that were a solution to something.
Shelley sat trembling at the table, sipping her coffee. Jane watched out the window. More emergency vehicles arrived, and somebody put up white-and-orange-striped sawhorses several doors down to stop traffic. Dear God, it would scare the kids to death if they came home and found the neighborhood seemingly under martial law. Todd would be at Dorothy's house, but Mike and Katie..
Hating to do it, Jane picked up the phone again and called her mother-in-law. "Thelma? Jane. I can only talk a second. Something awful has happened next door and the police have the block cordoned off. No, I'm fine. I'm not in any danger. But I'm worried about Mike and Katie trying to come home and thinking something has happened to me. I can't get out. Would you please call their schools and order them to stay there until you or Ted can pick them up? Thanks, Thelma. I'll come over to get them just as soon as I can.”
As she hung up, there was a knock on thefront door. Opening it gingerly, she was faced with a cop who couldn't have been more than twenty. "Is the homeowner of the house next door here? I was given this address."
“Yes, please come in.”
She introduced herself and Shelley and he said, "We've gone through the house, and there's nobody there but the victim. We'll need to ask you some questions. Would you rather stay here for a while to answer them?"
“Yes, I would," Shelley said. She'd gotten a grip on herself and was back to her normal color. "I think Mrs. Jeffry can probably tell you more than I can anyway. I've been gone almost all day. You were home, weren't you, Jane?"
“Mostly. I ran some errands. Tangerine juice," she added.
“Why didn't you just take some out of my freezer?" Shelley asked.
“Do you mean I ran all over town and it was next door all the time?" She felt an urge to laugh, but knew it would turn into full-blown hysteria if she started.
Another officer had come to the kitchen door, and with him there was a handsome, blond man in a business suit who introduced himself as Detective Mel VanDyne. He looked like a movie version of an investigator — shoulders wide enough to slightly strain an expensively tailored jacket, and smooth, economical gestures. As soon as Shelley and Jane identified themselves, he said in a deep, reassuring voice, "I noticed the uniform the victim was wearing and I've called the company to send someone over to make the identification, Mrs. Nowack."
“Thank you. I couldn't look at her again," Shelley said, lighting another cigarette, then stubbing it out. "I shouldn't be doing this. I quit."
“You'll quit again tomorrow," Detective Van-Dyne said in a voice so assured that Jane felt certain it would happen just as he said. "Do you have any idea what happened?"
“None. I left around— Oh, dear, I don't really remember—"
“It was ten o'clock. I saw you go," Jane put in. "Where did you go?"
“To the airport.To have lunch with my mother. I've been there the whole time. I'm sure there are people at the restaurant who will remember us. My mother managed to offend nearly every employee—”
Detective VanDyne's smile was friendly. "I wasn't asking you for an alibi, yet. But thanks anyway. When did you get back?' Shelley didn't even bother to answer. She looked at Jane.
“At three, or a few minutes before. I was at her house at quarter of and she wasn't back yet.”
VanDyne gazed at Jane speculatively. "What were you doing there?"
“Taking over a carrot salad."
“I'm having — I was having a meeting at my house tonight. A group that's planning to raise funds for new playground equipment," Shelley explained. "It was a potluck dinner, and everybody was supposed to bring their food ahead of time."
“So you were letting people in for Mrs. Nowack?" the detective asked Jane.
“No, I just left the door unlocked," Shelley said. "It's not as if the house were empty.”
VanDyne shook his head disapprovingly. "Can you give me a list of the people who came over?" He addressed this question to the air halfway between them.
Shelley's voice was a shade haughty. "You don't mean to suggest that one of my friends killed the woman?"
“Ma'am, I haven't any idea who did it. Not yet. But I must obviously begin with the people who were known to be there."
“It doesn't matter," Jane said. "She was only killed a few minutes before we called you. Only moments before Shelley came home."
“If you don't think it's impertinent of me to ask, how do you know that?"
“Because the dishwasher was on the prewash cycle when Shelley got home and discovered the body." She glanced at Shelley for confirmation, but Shelley had gotten dangerously pale and was carefully pouring herself more coffee with shaking hands. Jane went on. "That means the cleaning lady must have started it between the time I was there and the time Shelley got home. Everybody had already brought their food and gone when I went over at quarter to three."
“Still, I need the names of the people who were there and when."
“Oh, all right. Let me think. Dorothy Wallenberg brought a sheet cake early in the morning.”
“A sheet cake?"
“You know, the kind that's done in a big, flat pan. You don't have to ice the sides or worry about it not rising evenly or—”
VanDyne wasn't interested in the fine points of baking for a meeting. "Did this Wallenberg woman know Mrs. Nowack wasn't at home?"
“I was hom
e then," Shelley said. "But Jane brought the cake in for her."
“I see. Go on, Mrs. Jeffry."
“Let's see. Joyce Greenway brought a brisket over about one o'clock. And Laura Stapler came with a cucumber and onion salad around twenty minutes later. However long it took me to cook the carrots — for my salad, you see."
“Who else?" Detective VanDyne asked, not to be sidetracked with carrot cooking time.
“Robbie Jones brought some dip and this wonderful crunchy thing she makes — whole wheat fingers.”
The detective's eyebrows shot up, but he resisted. "When was that?"
“I don't know. I didn't see her."
“Then how do you know she brought them?"
“Well, they're there. They didn't just materialize," Jane snapped. These quibbling interruptions were irritating
“No, I mean, how do you know she brought them, and not somebody else?"
“She always does. And the dip was in her funny, discolored Tupperware bowl. I always think I could get the stain out if I could get my hands on it. I had one like that, and soaked it overnight in—"
“Mrs. Jeffry!"
“Yes. I guess that is beside the point. But you asked."
“All right. Assuming you can tell who was there by the food, who else had been there?"
“Well, there was a pasta salad I didn't recognize. Everybody's making pasta salads these days."
“That was Suzie Williams," Shelley put in. "She lives next door on the other side of me. She called and told me she was anxious to try out a new recipe."
“And there was a potato salad in a huge orange ceramic bowl with white flecks," Jane added. "I've seen it before. Who does that belong to, Shelley?"
“Mary Ellen Revere."
“Of course. She lives across the street.”
“Is that it?”
Jane could see out the window. "Yes. ." she said slowly as she watched a gurney with a covered shape being wheeled out to the ambulance. A man in coveralls the same blue as the cleaning lady's pant suit was walking alongside.
Jane suddenly felt sick again, but it had nothing to do with the murder victim. She was thinking of Steve. He must have been taken away like that, his face covered. But it had been the middle of the night, freezing and snowing. And instead of lush, green lawn, there must have been only twisted metal, bent guardrails, ice-coated pavement, and blood everywhere. Steve's blood and the truck driver's, probably steaming in the frigid night air at first, then crystallizing on the snow.
And he'd had nobody to walk beside him.
Five
“Mrs. Jeffry, could you give me addresses for the women you've mentioned? I'll have to contact them."
“What—? Oh, yes, of course." Jane dragged herself back to the present. What was going on now was bad enough; the past was unthinkable. She got her address book out from the drawer beneath the phone and started recording the information on a notepad.
“I'll take you home anytime you're ready, Mrs. Nowack," Detective VanDyne was saying. "Do you need anyone called? Your husband—?"
“No, he's out of town. So are my children. I'll phone him later this afternoon when things — when I've calmed down. Uh — about that room — the guest room—?"
“It's all right. Death is sometimes very messy. This one wasn't," he said, correctly interpreting her concern. "Of course, we've got a photographer and a fingerprint man there still, but they'll dean up after themselves — in their fashion — when they're done. We'll have to take the vacuum cleaner to the lab for a few days to try to get some prints off the cord. It's unlikely they'llfind any full prints, though. Is there anything else you can tell me about all this? What do you know about Mrs. Thurgood?"
“Mrs. Thurgood? Who's that?”
He looked at her with some alarm. "Mrs. Thurgood is the woman who was murdered."
“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that was her name. I suppose she must have told me, but—"
“She worked for you every week and you didn't know her name?"
“No. I'd never had her to my house before. She was a substitute for the woman the agency was supposed to send."
“I didn't know that," Detective VanDyne said.
“Does it matter?" Jane asked, looking up from her task of compiling names and addresses.
“Who can say?" he answered. "I don't know anything yet." He turned back to Shelley. "Are you ready to go home?"
“I'll come with you, Shelley," Jane said. She handed the list to the detective and wondered if he'd be able to read her handwriting. She hardly recognized it as her own.
“No, Jane. I'm fine now. Really. Go get your kids back from the Dragon Lady.”
Jane smiled. "Okay. But you'll come over for dinner?”
Shelley agreed and went off with her protector. Jane called her mother-in-law and made the briefest possible explanation of what had occurred. "I'll be over in a few minutes to pick up the kids."
“Oh, no need, Jane. They're happy as clams here. I've fixed a nice angel food cake. I know how Mike loves them."
“And I suppose he's wolfing it down now and spoiling his appetite for dinner?" This was one of Thelma's favorite tricks. She used to do it all the time with Steve, asking him to stop by to visit her in the late afternoon for some reason, then filling him up so he wouldn't want whatever Jane had fixed.
“Oh, were you cooking dinner tonight? I had no idea," Thelma said with a little laugh.
“I always cook dinner," Jane lied. She eyed a Kentucky Fried Chicken box from the evening before in the wastebasket. I must not lose my temper with her, she told herself. She's doing me a favor at the moment and that puts her in a position of power: "I'll be over in a few minutes.”
She then reported in to Dorothy Wallenberg. "I'm running over to pick up Todd. I appreciate your helping me out."
“Jane, what in heaven's name happened at Shelley's?"
“The cleaning lady was murdered."
“Murdered! My God! You said before that she died. I thought a heart attack or something. Murdered? Who did it?"
“Nobody knows. Please, Dorothy, don't tell Todd about it being murder yet. I want to sort of ease into it with him later. Without any warning, it would scare him to death."
“Of course it would. It scares me, and I'm worried about you being right next door. Shelley's home alone right now, too, isn't she? Thank God her children were gone. Don't worry about getting Todd. He's out playing with the kids, and I'd promised to take them all out for Burger King. Let me just bring him back to you later."
“Thanks, Dorothy. That sounds wonderful. The police ought to be gone by then and it'll be less horrible.”
As she backed out to go get Mike and Katie, the last police car pulled away. All that remained was a red MG. That had to be Detective VanDyne's. Somehow he looked like the sort of bachelor who'd have one.
When Jane got to her mother-in-law's, Thelma was greedy for details about the crisis. She was a stately, angular, blue-haired lady with a perpetually haughty look, but her usual frosty manner thawed as she exclaimed, "Murder! Good Lord, Jane. How terrible! Well, it just goes to prove what I've always said you and the children ought to move in here with me. It's not safe for you to be living alone.”
Jane gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. "Thelma, you'd have hardly been able to prevent this, and none of us were endangered anyway." This, she knew, was beside the point. Her mother-in-law had been harping for months on how they ought to move in with her. The bedrooms in her elegant condo were the size of skating rinks, but there were only two of them, and Jane sometimes had nightmares about living there and having to be Thelma's "roommate." Of course, Thelma didn't really want them there; what she was really angling for was an invitation to move in with them.
“She'd be packed in thirty seconds," Jane had said to Shelley the week before, "if I even hinted that I might agree. It would be like having Gen‑ eral Patton around the house. Slapping the troops — namely me — for their own good."
“Y
ou've got to stand firm, Jane," Shelley had advised. "She'd have you asking her permission to pee within the week."
“It's this modern permissive society," Thelma was going on. "When standards are allowed to slip, we're all in peril."
“I can't see how that figures, Thelma. We don't even know anything about this woman or why she was killed."
“Mark my words, it'll all come out eventually and you'll see I'm right. Ah, children, your mother has finally come to pick you up," she said as Mike and Katie came out of the second bedroom, which was fitted out as a TV room. Thelma had every video game in the world, part of her insidious campaign to make herself indispensable. She managed, too, by some mysterious process that Jane found highly suspicious, to get rental movies before they were even in the rental shops.
“What's goin' on, Mom?" Mike asked.
“Mother! I was supposed to go to Jenny's after school and Gram said you wouldn't let me," Katie complained.
Jane cast a black look at Thelma, who was smiling fondly on her grandchildren.
“I'll explain on the way home. Get your things," Jane said. "Thelma, I don't know how to thank you for your support."
“It's the least I can do, Jane. After all, they are my own flesh and blood."
“As she drove home ("No, Mike, my nerves are too frayed to ride with you in rush-hourtraffic."), she explained to them what had happened in the most innocuous way she could. Her aim was to make the murder sound like a pure freak of nature that would almost instantly be sorted out, with no danger to them whatsoever. But in her own mind she was deeply troubled. If somebody could commit murder in Shelley's house, they could do it in hers. The first thing she was going to do when she got home was check all the locks.
The kids, however, weren't upset. They were fascinated by the idea of a real live murder next door. To them, it was an adventure, impersonal and exciting, like something on television. Tomorrow they'd be the center of attention at school, famous for their proximity to something so out of the ordinary. They hadn't known the victim, so they had no sense of personal loss. Nor had they had the misfortune of actually viewing death, as Jane had. Best of all, they showed no signs of making any connection with their father. They'd grieved him properly at the time, and still missed him, but this didn't appear to be reactivating their distress, as it had with her.
Grime and Punishment jj-1 Page 4