A Farewell to Yarns (18 page)

“Andy Warhol promised me fifteen minutesof fame," Jane mused as they roared off. "I wonder if it's all going to be in five-second intervals. Did you learn anything?"

“Not a damned thing. They didn't even seem to notice that he was missing."

“They were all probably too relieved to question a good thing."

“Jane, do you mind if I drop you off at home? I've got to get back to the coroner and see what he's found out."

“Far be it from me to keep a man from his coroner," Jane said. Did he mean he would have otherwise offered her lunch or something semidatish?

When he'd left, she called Shelley. "I saw you come back with VanDyne," her friend said. "You look smashing, by the way. Want to go someplace fancy for lunch before deterioration starts to set in?"

“I'd love it. Shelley, Bobby was murdered overnight."

“I know. Suzie told me."

“It wasn't even in the paper. How did Suzie know?"

“She had to run down to the mall early this morning to set up for a lingerie sale. It was the talk of the town. Who did it? Why there? When? Where do we send out thank-you notes?"

“Shelley, you don't mean that."

“I know I don't. But he's a hard person to feel sorry about. Was the funeral hideous?

What about lunch? We can pick the whole case apart.”

Over crab quiche and white wine, Jane told Shelley what little she knew about Bobby's death.

"So nothing at the scene helped them?" Shelley asked.

“Apparently not. Unless VanDyne is concealing information from me—which is entirely possible. The only reason he was being chummy with me was so he could go to the funeral

'disguised' as a friend of a friend of the family. Shelley, there
is
such a thing as an unsolved crime—"

“Probably many more of them than we're led to believe," Shelley agreed.

“I have this awful feeling Bobby and Phyllis are going to end up in that category. The thing that scares me is the thought that whoever killed them may not be through." She took a last bite of her quiche. "Suppose it was somebody like Mr. Finch—not that I think it was—but if he killed them for something he imagined was an insult to him, he might just go right on and bump off Fiona or somebody. On the other hand, suppose it was Chet or John Wagner—"

“Then it's a domestic matter, not likely to go any further," Shelley said firmly.

“Not necessarily. If one of them did it, they might think somebody else had a clue—

maybe even us—and is a danger to their getting away with it."

“Us? What do we know?”

Jane paused. "We might know lots of things we don't realize are significant.”

Shelley waited while the waiter came and took their plates and dessert orders. When he'd gone, she crossed her arms and leaned forward. "Jane, what's on your mind?”

Jane lowered her voice. "Shelley, this little memory jiggled through my mind during the service. Remember when Chet and John came over that night and we went to the door because Bobby didn't? Picture what happened.”

Shelley frowned. "Nothing happened. They came in the door. That's all."

“N o , t h e y c a m e i n a l o c k e d d o o r . . . " Shelley leaned back in her chair. "... that
we
didn't open."

“Right.
John Wagner had a key.”

The waiter hovered until they were done and the shopping mall was too crowded for further conversation. They left the restaurant, and Jane got out a little notebook she carried in her purse. "Let's see. I've got Mike's CDs to get and something for Thelma and Dixie Lee. That ought to finish it up."

“You're not buying Mike a CD player, are you?"

“Good Lord, no! I can't afford a thing like that. Thelma's getting it. I hate for her to give the kids such expensive gifts. She only does it to put me in a bad light."

“Come on, Jane. That's not fair. They're her only grandchildren, and she's got plenty of money to spend, so why shouldn't she?"

“Yes, you're right. But I wish Steve's brother Ted and his wife, Dixie Lee, would get on with having kids, so she could disperse her interest a little. I should be grateful she didn't buy Mike a car. I was afraid she was going to."

“All right. Let's get the CDs first," Shelley said, glaring dangerously at a group of women who had jostled her.

Standing over a rack full of Billy Joel CDs, and finding themselves momentarily alone, Shelley said, "There are lots of reasons he could have had a key. Phyllis might have given it to him. She probably did."

“Yes—it's not really the key itself that's bothering me. I just meant it was something like that. Or several somethings skittering through my brain—Shelley," she gasped, "do you kno w what these things
cost?”

After purchasing four of the shiny plastic disks, they moved on to a luggage store, where Shelley knew there was a sale on extremely good, frumpy handbags. That took care of Jane's mother-in-law. "She'll just take it back," Jane groused.

“Of course she will, but she might apply the credit to a suitcase and then get the urge to go on a trip. You can't lose."

“Oh, Shelley, you are a comfort to me!" Jane said with a laugh. A matched set of necklace, earrings, and bracelet in very good mock turquoise and silver let Jane mark her sister-in-law's name off her list. "That's really pretty stuff," Jane said. "I can't believe they aren't hot at that price. She'll love them. So would I. If Steve were alive, I'd go home and hint like mad. You know, it's very strange not shopping for him. I actually put his name on my list when I started this and felt like a fool."

“Old habits," Shelley said astringently. "Let's get on our way. I'm getting claustrophobic.”

On the way home, they chewed over the business of John Wagner having a key but came tono clear conclusion, except that Jane really ought to at least mention it to Mel VanDyne. It had seemed a long day already, and Jane felt her brain turning to mush. Once home, she hid her purchases and put the roast into the oven. It had been marinating for two days in wine vinegar, cloves, and onions and smelled good enough to eat raw. It was Uncle Jim's favorite dinner, and if he was going to drive clear out to the suburbs, which he hated, to sit through a band concert, a good dinner was the least she could do for him.

After touching base with each of the kids, she went to her room, took off her suit, silk blouse, and panty hose, and lay down for a short nap. But her mind kept wandering around the question of the murders. She
knew
something important, she was sure of it, but she couldn't land squarely on what it was. It was something she'd noticed recently.

Something she'd seen . . .

Twenty
-one

“W hat
a
very
interesting
seasoning," Thelma Jeffr y said with critical reflection as s h e chewed on a bit of roast beef.

Uncle Jim winked at Jane. "It's Germ an, Thelma," he said. "When Jane's family and I lived in West Berlin, her mother fixed this nearly every Sunday just for me."

“Jane, I didn't know you lived there—too." She made it sound like they were gypsies who'd called a painted wagon their home. "Such a dangerous place to take children, I would have thought."

“Not really," Jane said breezily. "My sister and I used to play hide-and-seek on the Berlin Wall. The guards were really nice. Especially the Russian ones.”

Thelma gasped and looked like she wanted to clamp her hands over the children's ears to keep them from hearing about their mother's fool ishness.

“I'm joking, Thelma," Jane told her rel uctantly. "My sister and I weren't born then, and The Wall didn't exist. Mike, would you please join us?”

Throughout the meal Mike had been rehearsing for the upcoming concert. Tapping his foot to the beat of music none of them could hear, he was intently practicing his fingering on his milk glass. He hadn't spoken throughout the whole meal.

“Huh? Oh, Mom, you did get the oil and water checked and put some air in the tires, didn't you?"

“Mike, it's only a few blocks," she said, passing him the potatoes. "Mike is driving himself tonight," she explained to the rest of them.

“First time out on the new driver's license?" Uncle Jim asked.

“Oh, Jane, do you
really
think that's a good idea?" Thelma asked.

“No, I'm quite certain it's not. I don't think he should drive until he's at least twentyfive. But the state of Illinois says it is, and he passed hi s tes t wi t h fl yi ng co lo rs — a nd I do me a n flying!"

“Mike, why don't you let me take you and your friends in my Lincoln?" Thelma offered.

Mike looked so stricken at the idea of showing up at the school being driven by his grand mother that Jane took pity. She wouldn't just take him, she'd go in with him and want to fuss around straightening his collar and taking dozens of pictures. "No, Thelma, I promised Mike he could drive himself. He needs to be there earlier than the rest of us."

“I know what Steve would have thought," Thelma said repressively.

“Maybe you don't," Jane replied, knowing better but unable to stop herself. "I wonder if you ever knew about the time Steve went to Michigan when he was thirteen and drove your car around all weekend? He told me many times what fun it was.”

This exaggeration of a story Steve had mentioned only once reduced Thelma to a sputtering simmer that lasted through the meal. When Mike finally got ready to go, Jane went to the driveway with him, despite his efforts to leave without fanfare. She grabbed his arm as he started to get in the car. "Honey, I know you don't want to hear this or need to hear it, but I have to say it: drive carefully.”

To her astonishment, he gave her a big hug. "Thanks, Mom, and thanks, too, for keeping Gramma off my tail."

“I love you, Mike."

“And I love you, Mom, but the guys are waiting. Remember, you promised not to look at the program or let anybody tell you what we play last. It's a surprise you'll like.”

She stood back and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Hugging herself and shivering in the cold, she stood her ground until the taillights of the station wagon were out of sight. It was all she could do to keep from running down the street shouting, "Come back. Come back. Stay my little boy. Please don't grow up!”

When she came back in the house, Thelma started to say something, and Jane heard Uncle Jim rumble quietly, "Leave her alone, Thelma.”

After a quiet little cry in the guest bathroom, Jane washed her face and emerged to serve dessert. Uncle Jim's warning had worked. Thelma didn't even comment on the fact that all the Christmas decorations were up, but the presents were sitting in a heap in the corner of the room, waiting for a tree to arrive.

When dinner was over, they organized themselves to go to the concert. Todd was a bit slow getting himself together, but Katie was waiting at the door, fidgeting with impatience. "What's with you?" Jane asked. "I've never known you to be eager to go to a band concert."

“I like 'em, Mom. And besides, there's this really neat guy playing with the junior high orchestra I want to show you."

“Of course there is. Why did I have to ask?" Jane said with a smile.

“I think you really ought to get Mike his own car," Katie said, trailing her to the closet.

"I mean, he's got a job and school and band, and you're always having to drive him someplace, and think how much easier it would be for you if he could take himself. And you would still have your car to go wherever you wanted.”

Jane slipped on her coat and fished in the pockets for her gloves. "I didn't come to town on a turnip truck, kiddo."

“What do you mean by that?"

“Just that I know exactly what this excess of consideration for Mike and me is all about. If I were to get Mike a car when he's sixteen, you'd be in a position to say I should get you one when you turn sixteen. Otherwise, it wouldn't be fair. Right?”

Katie grinned. "It can't hurt to try. That's what you always say.”

Thelma insisted on taking her car and commandeered Katie and Todd to ride with-her, a plan that was just fine with Jane. It gave her a short time alone with Uncle Jim. Of unspoken accord, neither of them had mentioned the murders in Thelma's presence. Jane was surprised the subject hadn't come up, but apparently Thelma's eagle eye for bad news had missed them altogether, or she'd failed to make the neighborhood connection.

Unfortunately, Jane's hurried and intensive questioning during the short ride to the school auditorium didn't provide her with any useful information. Uncle Jim had not only snooped into the file on Phyllis's death, he'd even called VanDyne and chatted with him about it. He'd also looked over the reports on Bobby's murder. All of this and he had nothing to add to what Jane already knew.

“Don't they go over the sites with a fine -toothed comb for clues?" Jane asked.

“Sure, and they found tons of unrelated junk. Sometimes that's all they find, but every bit of it has to be checked out. That's what's so damned time consuming. The dumpster is a real nightmare. Apparently it's a hangout back there. All kinds of beer cans, broken bottles, the butts of old joints, plus papers and stuff that may have been left by the murderer but probably just overflowed from the trash in the dumpster. They've got to check fingerprints on the damned thing with everybody who's remotely associated with the victims, the mall, and the trash-hauling company."

“That could take years! What about alibis?"

“John Wagner claims to have been home in bed both nights. His wife confirms it, but she would, wouldn't she? Chet Wagner—well, youknow the situation with him the night his wife was killed, and last night he says he was tucked in at a hotel along with the other son. The other son, Everett, I think, confirms it. Everett, incidentally, seems to be in the clear for his stepmother's death. He was seen and photographed at some country house shooting party in Yorkshire. Of course, the sons could be lying, either to protect themselves or their father."

“What about Mr. Finch?"

“Same thing as the others. Says he was home in bed. Might be true, might not. None of the neighbors claim to have seen him leaving during the night, but apparently there were plenty of them who would have liked to pin it on him. Then there's the parents of the boy, the adopted parents, that is. Supposedly in Florida, and a humdinger of an alibi for last night. The father is a diabetic and got into some trouble with his blood sugar or whatever. Spent the night under observation at a hospital. Wife with him the whole time.”