Grime and Punishment jj-1

by Jill Churchill

  Yes, she'd have a garden! Daffodils and tulips and pussy willows — were there such things anymore? She hadn't seen one since she was child. And forsythia. Great, cascading forsythia bushes along the whole west fence. And, in the fall, bronze and red chrysanthemums.

  Thelma arrived in her Lincoln, which looked like a metallic gray galleon under full sail. Jane didn't hear her coming, and was surprised when Thelma caught her in the yard and said, "Aren't you worried about chiggers?”

  Jane laughed. "I worry about a lot of things, but not chiggers. I was planning a garden.”

  “Oh, dear…"

  “What?"

  “Well, I know Steve wouldn't have liked it. He was so proud of his lawn." She scuffed a well-shod toe against a clump of crabgrass. The message was clear. Jane was desecrating his memory by her disregard for the lawn.

  Steve's not around to know or care! Jane wanted to shout. But there was no point in getting this afternoon off to a worse start than absolutely necessary. So she ignored Thelma's comment and went on. "I'm going to dig up that section and have some vegetables. Corn and tomatoes and some beans to can."

  “Jane, you wouldn't! Home-canned beans are the most common source of food poisoning there is."

  “Oh, did you think I meant to eat them? No, no, no. I just meant to bottle them up for the county fair display."

  “Jane, I don't find sarcasm very becoming in a woman. I'm sure Steve would have agreed with me."

  “You'd be surprised—" She stopped, midsentence. "Never mind, Thelma. Let's go in. I need to stir the spaghetti sauce."

  “How delightful.Spaghetti… again.”

  Fortunately, Thelma had pretty well lost interest in the murder next door. Except for expressing horror at being so close to the scene, she found that the subject deprived her of being the center of attention.

  Ted's worry, naturally, was how it might adversely affect property values. "I want you to be able to get every penny you can out of this house, Jane," he said with genuine concern.

  “I'm not planning to leave this house for centuries, Ted, and everyone will have forgotten about it long before then. But I appreciate your con cern."

  “Oh, I didn't mean to suggest that you should leave—"

  “I know you didn't." She gave him a warm smile. Dear Ted, always so afraid he might upset her.

  Dixie Lee simply didn't want to hear about "icky" things like dead bodies.

  Uncle Jim, tucking into the spaghetti like he might never get another chance, kept a tactful silence. Jane was relieved that he made no reference to his familiarity with crime and criminals.

  The subject only came up peripherally once more, as Thelma was leaving. She made a point of brushing furiously at some imaginary dust on the sleeve of the smart green linen jacket she'd worn. She glanced into the hall closet where it had hung, as if to determine just how filthy it really was.

  “You really will have to have someone in, Jane, dear."

  “I did. Day before yesterday."

  “It's a pity one can't get good help these days. Why, when I was a girl, we had a houseful of servants, and they wouldn't have let a speck of dust collect.”

  No, you'd have probably given those poor, downtrodden souls twenty lashes, Jane thought.

  “And they were just like part of the family. They knew all our little idiosyncrasies; how much starch to put in Papa's shirts, and how Mother liked her bath things laid out. And they knew things about we children that even our parents didn't know about. Oh, Jane dear, I almost forgot She took a large white envelope from her purse and handed it to Jane.

  Through gritted teeth, Jane said, "Thank you, Thelma.”

  Ted and Dixie Lee followed her out, and Jane's kids made their break for freedom; Katie and Mike to visit friends, Todd to ride bikes with Elliot Wallenberg on the playground lot. Uncle Jim made as if to join the exodus, but she put her hand on his arm and said, "Please stay a while."

  “Something wrong?"

  “No, I'd just like to visit with you, and there's never time with the gang around.”

  Jane poured two beers and went out to sit on the patio with him. A little breeze had sprung up, frightening Willard into trying to sit in Jane's lap. They chatted for a bit and eventually came around to the murder. Jane told him everything she knew, which was precious little, and finished up with a recounting of her conversation with Suzie Williams and the subsequent irritating brush with VanDyne.

  “I don't imagine he meant to be insulting, Janey. He was probably sincere about you having a special insight. Most men would never have reason to know specialized things about how a house is run."

  “But it was his manner that made me so mad."

  “Speaking of manner, what was that frozen smile you gave old Thelma when she handed you that envelope? You didn't even open it. And it seems to happen every time we have dinner."

  “It was my allowance," Jane said.

  Uncle Jim sat forward, his look worried. "Honey, are you having money problems?"

  “No, I have plenty. Well, not plenty, but enough, if I'm reasonably careful." Jim had alluded to her finances before, not out of nosiness, but concern. It was time she explained. "You know Thelma and her late husband had a pharmacy. Steve and Ted got degrees in pharmacology and business both and they opened the other two big drugstores with Thelma. That was about the time Steve and I got married, and I not only put in all my money — a small inheritance from my grandmother — but I worked at one of the stores for nearly a year without pay, just to help get it off the ground. Well, as Steve's widow, and because of what I put in, I own a third interest, and that envelope she gave me is my part of the profits."

  “Then why call it your 'allowance'?"

  “That's what it seems like. I know perfectly well it's my money and I'm entitled to it, but she hands it out like charity and, dammit, I accept it as such. She can't just mail the damned thing or give it to me privately. It's always a production, like a gift."

  “I didn't understand why you've got a third and Thelma has a third and she lives like it's a million a month?"

  “Because I don't get all of mine. I had a trust set up for the kids; half of my share goes straight into it. And Thelma has a lot of other investments as well."

  “Have you talked to Ted about all this? I think you should. He's a nice young man. I think he'd understand if you asked him to mail it to you himself."

  “Dear Ted — all he thinks about is the business and Dixie Lee. But you may be right. I'll try it. I know he'll understand, it's just a question of whether he'll stand up to Thelma. He's wonderful at ignoring her, but a confrontation? I don't know.”

  They sat quietly. Meow came in from the fieldwith a mouse, which she generously tried to give to Willard, who ran for cover under the foundation plantings. Jim finally said, Honey, how are you getting along? Not money, just everything. Have you met any other men?"

  “Good Lord, no! I haven't even thought about it."

  “That's not right, Janey. I know you loved Steve, but he's gone and you—"

  “Oh, Uncle Jim," she interrupted, her voice quavering over his concern. "You don't understand."

  “It always seems like that, but I do, Janey. I've lost my own wife, remember.”

  Jane looked off into the yard, where next year there was going to be a fine garden. It was a day for revelations.

  “Uncle Jim, haven't you ever wondered why Steve was out on the road at midnight on the coldest night in February?"

  “A business trip, I guess. There was a suitcase in the car."

  “Uncle Jim, he was leaving me.”

  Eleven

  There was a long silence while he absorbed this. Jane, staring at a nonexistent bank of forsythia bushes, was thinking that if she said this enough times, maybe it would hurt less. The only other person she'd ever told was Shelley, and that was the night of the accident. It had been locked up inside her all this time, and by damn, it did feel good to say it to Uncle Jim. Like taking a pressure cooker off the b
urner.

  “Janey, I had no idea. I'm sorry."

  “So was I." Now that she'd started, no power on earth could have kept her from telling him the whole ugly thing. "Steve had come home late from the office — or somewhere — that night and told me he was in love with someone else. A married woman who was going to divorce her husband for him. I never even got the chance to weasel out of him who it was."

  “The bastard," Jim said under his breath.

  Jane heard him. "That's what I thought. When the highway patrolman told me about the accident, all I could think was, the son of a bitch deserved to die. Of course, that feeling passed. Well, sort of passed. Steve's death was a doublewhammy. I'd lost him twice in one hour. A lot of women are widowed. A lot are dumped. Few of us get it both in one night."

  “Janey, why didn't you tell me things weren't right between you? Maybe I could have talked to him."

  “I imagine I would have," she said, suspecting this was a lie, "but I didn't know, Uncle Jim. I honestly didn't know! I thought everything was fine. It was like being hit in the head with a sledgehammer when he told me. I wasn't even mad or hurt right at first, just dumbfounded. And — embarrassed. I felt like an absolute fool. I was still pacing around my bedroom, crying and raging and wondering what in hell I was going to tell the kids, and thinking somehow I could get him back, when the police came to the door. Of course, I know now that I couldn't have gotten him back and I wouldn't have wanted it that way. I've never been much good at forgiveness."

  “Janey, I'm so awfully sorry."

  “Well, it has its bright spots, in a grim sort of way. If he'd divorced me, I'd be living in poverty, probably. Divorce settlements aren't very kind to wives with three kids and no job skills these days. And what do I know how to do? Drive car pools, give birthday parties, bandage scraped knees? Not very useful when it comes to making a living. The mortgage on the house had a life insurance policy that paid it off. By dying before he could get rid of me, Steve left me this house free and clear, and believe me, you'd have to fire-bomb it to get me out!"

  “He really was a bastard."

  “No, he wasn't. Only at the last. He was a good husband until he found somebody else. It's been long enough now that I'm beginning to be able to look back and see that. He always remembered special days and bought thoughtful gifts. I loved him for good reason, Uncle Jim," she said, hating the tears that were running down her face and unable to stop them. "And the kids did too. He was a wonderful father. Never missed a Little League game or Boy Scout camp-out. One time he canceled an important business trip because Katie had her first piano recital — Oh, dear… you'd think I'd be better at crying after all the practice I've had. Excuse me a minute, please.”

  She ran inside to collect herself. After some furious nose-blowing, she washed her face, put on fresh makeup, and returned to the patio. "Thanks for listening, Uncle Jim," she said briskly. "Now I need some cheese and crackers to soak up the beer. How about you?"

  “Sounds great, honey," he said, tactfully adopting her attitude that everything was normal and the conversation about Steve had never happened.

  She fixed a snack and they talked, very deliberately, of other things, most of them having to do with gardens, all of them innocuous. Willard, hoping the deadly mouse was gone, came skulking back. After a while, Jane's mind wandered back to the death of the cleaning lady.

  “I've been thinking about what Thelma said about the servants when she was a girl—”

  “All horseshit. I'll bet she grew up in a tarpaper shack with waxed paper for windowpanes.”

  Jane laughed. "Don't I wish! No, what I meant was the stuff about servants knowing all about you. Didn't you hear what she said?"

  “I'm sure I heard it, but I've gotten good at not paying attention to the woman. You might do well to learn that skill, you know."

  “I know. But she did say something I've been thinking about. Just hear me out, Uncle Jim, and tell me if you think I'm crazy." She went on to tell him her suspicions about Edith having gotten into the mysteriously unlocked desk drawer.

  “Suppose she wasn't trying to steal anything — if it was she who opened it — but was only snooping?”

  Uncle Jim leaned back, propping his big feet on another patio chair. "Damned hard to prove, blackmail. It's one of the crimes that victims don't want to admit to. If you tell the police, or even a friend, that you're being blackmailed, they naturally want to know what for. I'll run her through the computer for you in the morning, though. Just to see what turns up. Of course, your Detective VanDyne has already done that, but he's not apt to share it with you."

  “I'll say! could you talk to him about it?"

  “Nope.Out of my jurisdiction. If the township asks the metropolitan police for help, they get it. Otherwise, we stay out. Some police departments are real touchy about what they see as interference. I'll tell you one thing, though, honey, and you'd better pay attention."

  “Yes, sir!" she said with a salute. But underneath the affectionate mockery, there was alarm.

  It was unlike him to speak so authoritatively to her.

  “I don't want you to have that cleaning woman back here for any reason."

  “Don't worry. Murder aside, I didn't like her. And I don't like even the suspicion that she was pawing through my belongings. The lady I had before wouldn't so much as open a drawer to get out a dish towel without asking me. I used to think it was a terrible nuisance, but now I'm beginning to see her as an angel. Don't worry,I won't let Edith back in the house."

  “And you'll lock up real well?"

  “I always do."

  “No, you don't. I've been here three or four times that you were cooking and just yelled for me to come in."

  “But that's when I'm home," Jane protested guiltily. She'd gotten very lax about keeping the house locked — until a few days earlier.

  “When you're home is the only time you can be hurt at home," Uncle Jim pointed out sternly."If you're going to leave the doors unlocked, you'd be better off to do it when you're gone than when you're here.”

  Jane lit a cigarette. "You think there's really a danger, then?”

  He reached over and patted her arm. "I don't mean to scare you, honey. No. I don't think anybody's after you. But when somebody's been murdered a few yards away and the murderer hasn't been identified, well, it's only reasonable to be safe instead of sorry.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes before Jimstarted stirring himself to depart. "Good dinner, Janey."

  “I've got a doggie bag for you. Uncle Jim, do you ever eat real food?"

  “Sure, every time I come here."

  “Then come more often. Why do I have to drag you out to see me?"

  “It's not you. I'd like to see you every day. It's this place. The suburbs. All this — space.And tidiness."

  “Too wholesome for you?”

  He laughed. "It's true, I guess. A place like this doesn't need a guy like me. I don't give a damn about grass, and if I had a yard, everything would die for sure. But in the city, there's always already a mess, a domestic disturbance, some slob I can try to straighten out. Sometimes I even do some good.”

  She walked him to his car by way of the kitchen and handed him two plastic containers with sauce and pasta and some foil-wrapped garlic bread. He set them on the floor of the front seat and gave her back the containers she'd sent stew and salad in the last time.

  “Janey, would you like for me to come stay with you until this is sorted out?"

  “I'd adore it, but I'd be overwhelmed with guilt at the amount of driving you'd have to do every day. You'd be on the road three hours a day. I've ridden with you, and I don't think the Chicago highway system is ready for that. Besides, you'd probably go raving mad within a day and I'd have to find a good mental institution to put you in. It would cut into my free time."

  “I could get a policewoman or private detective agency to send someone…" he said, obviously relieved that she'd turned down his offer.

 
“That's all I need. A strange woman in the house. I've got a very strange one already who's beating down the doors to move in."

  “Thelma? Don't you do it. The old bitch would chew you up and spit you out in a week. I'll call you tomorrow with whatever I find out about your nosy cleaning lady. And, speaking of nosy—"

  “What?"

  “Don't go interfering in this, Janey."

  “What do you mean?"

  “All this talk about what you and your friend Shelley have figured out, and the business about VanDyne not being willing to tell you anything — that kind of butting in could be dangerous too. All you need to know is how to be careful and keep yourself out of any possible danger. Ignorance can be, and often is, safety."

  “Then I ought to be about the most secure person in the world, Uncle Jim. There's hardly anything I don't know less than I should about. Keep an eye on that sauce or you'll have to shovel it off the floor of the car.”

  She smiled and waved as he drove off, but when she went in the house, she grimly checked that the doors were all locked. She'd have to make sure the kids all had keys tomorrow and impress upon them, without being too scary, that they had to keep the house safe.

  Twelve

  There was neither band practice nor cheer leader practice on Monday mornings, a small kindness Jane was sure the school board was unaware of or they would have promptly corrected it. She was able to get up at the usual time and still make a big breakfast. The kids were dumbfounded.

  “You don't mean we have to eat all this, do you?" Katie's nose wrinkled.

  “Why not?"

  “I couldn't walk around with all this stuff in my stomach. I'd feel like a balloon.”

  Mike's reaction was cautious curiosity. "What's this stuff?"

  “An omelet with bacon and sliced onions and peppers."

  “In the morning? God, Mom! If I blew into my tuba with that kinda breath, I'd never get rid of the smell. Nothing personal, Mom, but it looks like barf, besides. Sorry.”

  It was Todd who put it all into perspective. He silently studied the omelet, the orange juice, the English muffins, the Canadian bacon, and said, "What's wrong, Mom?”