Grime and Punishment: A Jane Jeffry Mystery (17 page)

“So do I, frankly. But that isn't proof of anything."

“Shelley, you're forgetting. We don't need proof. We just need to figure it out and Detective VanDyne can find the proof. That's his part of the job."

“I think the whole problem is his job."

“In theory, yes. But the fact is, he doesn't seem to be in any great hurry to sort this out, and in the meantime, your kids are growing up with your sister."

“I called her last night and offered to send along the adoption papers," Shelley said. "Yes, you're right. I'm the one who wants this solved soon. It's VanDyne's job, but it's my life that's being imposed upon. So, do we go after Robbie next?"

“Might as well try. Do you suppose she's home?"

“You never know. She works a very erratic schedule at that mental hospital. I hope you've got some improved technique of questioning in mind."

“I certainly do.”

Robbie did turn out to be home, but barely. "Oh, hello," she said at the door, taking her dish. "Will you come in?" She checked her watch. "I'm on my way to work, but I don't have to leave for nine minutes. Shelley, I wanted to talk to you. I'm concerned about this planning committee. We're supposed to report to the school board on our plans for the playground the end of next week, and without having had a single meeting — I know this awful death has been a great shock, but we really should be getting on with things."

“I hadn't even thought about it. You're right, of course. I'll set up another time."

“We could have the meeting here, if you'd prefer," Robbie said, but it was a halfhearted offer. Her house was one of the dozen or so scattered through the neighborhood that predated the subdivision by some twenty
or
thirty years. Most were big, sprawling farm homes. Others, like Robbie's, were old and small with little, oddly angled rooms. It wasn't a good place for meetings. Nor was Robbie a born hostess. Her house was uncomfortably clean, always reeking of Clorox and Lysol.

“Thanks for offering, Robbie, but I don't mind having it," Shelley said. "In a day or two I hope this terrible mess about the cleaning lady will be taken care of and I'll get back to normal."

“Oh, do they have the person who did it?”

Jane studied her for some sign of her thoughts. But that big, lantern-jawed face showed nothing but mild, impersonal interest.

“Not exactly," Shelley said, and glanced at Jane with an expression that clearly meant, "Take it away, Jane."

“You see, Robbie, it seems to have to do with blackmail," Jane said. "And what we're wondering is, what was Edith blackmailing
you
about?" She tried to make it sound as if they were all victims in this together.

Robbie's face grew suddenly pale, and Jane noticed for the first time that she had freckles. She turned her back on them, her shoulders rigid.

“Robbie, you can tell us," Jane said. Her heart was pounding; Robbie hadn't denied it. Was there about to be a shocking revelation, and did she
really
want to hear it?

“Robbie…?" Shelley prodded.

She whirled back around, her skin mottled in ugly red patches. "It's none of your business!" Shelley was the first to break the tense silence.

“Robbie, I'm sorry, but it is. A perfectly innocent woman was strangled to death in my house.”

“I didn't do it!”

Shelley took her hand, a clenched fist that didn't relax. "I don't imagine you did, Robbie. But I still need to know all I can find out." She was speaking very softly and soothingly. But Robbie continued to glare at her, her face stiff and hostile.

Jane was feeling sick. Was Shelley holding the very hand that had looped the vacuum cleaner cord around poor Ramona Thurgood's throat and twisted and twisted? Had they now set themselves up as the next victims? That was one aspect of this snooping that hadn't occurred to her, but now came with a force that left her nearly breathless.

“I'm not talking to you any more about this. Get out!" Robbie's command was icy.

“Yes, of course," Shelley said. She'd paled a bit too, and Jane suspected Shelley's thoughts mirrored her own: In their enthusiasm to solve the mystery, what had they stupidly unleashed?

They went to the door, scuttling sideways like frightened crabs, half-afraid to turn their backs on her.

“Get out! Get out!" she screamed as they slipped through the front door and out into the cool air.

They all but ran to the car. Shelley's hands were shaking so badly she could hardly get the key in the ignition. Neither said a word until they were back in Shelley's driveway. "Come to my house," Jane said.

They went in. There was no sign of Willarduntil he recognized their voices and came slinking in from the dining room cravenly wagging his tail.
Some watchdog!
Jane thought. Shelley sat down at the kitchen table and put the heels of her hands to her eyes.

“Jane, we just did something terrible."

“I know," Jane said, surprised to find that her voice was trembling.

“If Robbie Jones didn't kill Ramona, we've insulted and embarrassed a friend, probably beyond repair. If she
did,
it's worse. We've alerted her that we're on to her and — oh, God, Jane! What have we done?”

The phone rang and Jane jumped. Unable to ignore a ringing phone, no matter what the reason, she reluctantly picked it up.

“Janey, I've been calling you all morning. I was getting worried about you."

“Uncle Jim! I was out uh, running errands with Shelley." Dear God, she couldn't tell him what they'd actually been up to. It was precisely what he had warned her against, endangering herself by knowing too much. Now she understood what he'd meant.

“I talked to a man at your local department. Nice young man. Wasn't too forthcoming, of course. Detective VanDyne was out, but I did get a little information. It seems they do feel the attack was intended against the other cleaning woman. And blackmail is the supposed motive, just as you thought. There's nothing official in her record, but she's been let go from two other agencies over some questionable. practices."

“Do they know who was being blackmailed?" Jane asked.

There was a long pause. "Now, Janey, you know I can't be sharing other people's private business with you…" He paused again and went on very slowly and deliberately. "But I could point out certain things that are a matter of public record."

“Like what?"

“Well, for instance, there are newspaper accounts of an incident in a small town in upstate New York that tell about the trial, and subsequent imprisonment, of a psychiatrist who molested and seriously injured a child who was a patient of his, about ten years ago. The newspaper says that his wife — a nurse — was indicted as an accessory to the murder."

“Oh, my God!"

“This wife was later proved to have been visiting a friend in Florida at the time, and no charges were brought against her. In fact, the judge is reported to have made particular mention of her innocence, and the fact that she was an auxiliary victim. I think, if I were such a woman, I would probably change my last name and move away, wouldn't you?”

Jane cleared her throat and glanced at Shelley, who was watching her with the same morbid fascination as Max and Meow showed when watching Todd's hamsters. "What was this wife's name, Uncle Jim?"

“At that time — Roberta Cheney. You do understand this, don't you, Janey?"

“I think so. This woman was clearly innocent, but if she were still working as a psychiatric nurse, the mere association might seriouslydamage her career. Or she might be afraid it would."

“That's fair to say. And Jane — I would suggest that if I knew a person such as this, I would stay clear of her for the time being."

“Oh, I would too, Uncle Jim," Jane said with a sincerity that rang as false as a tin dime.

“Janey, you are minding your own beeswax, aren't you?"

“Absolutely!”

Shelley groaned.

Seventeen

Jane
hung up and said, "Roberta was married to a psychiatrist who molested a patient, a child."

“Oh, no," Shelley said. "How long ago?"

“Ten years or so. Uncle Jim said that early in the investigation Robbie was considered an accessory, but was completely cleared because—" Jane stopped, listening. A car door slammed in one of their driveways. Nervous, they sat there, frozen like fugitives, until there was a light tap at Jane's kitchen door.

Jane peered through the curtains, then opened the door to Joyce Greenway. Her red convertible was parked in Shelley's driveway.

“Is Shelley here? Oh, hi, Shelley. I just stopped by to see if I could pick up that thing I brought the brisket in last week. I'm taking treats to the grade school this afternoon and I don't have anything else big enough to serve — Shelley, what's wrong? You look like a ghost.”

Jane admired the way Shelley covered her built-up anxiety. "I just realized I put the brisket in the car to bring to you two hours ago. I completely forgot. If it wasn't nasty before, it probably is now. I'm so sorry!"

“Don't be. Nobody in my family will eat it anyway. Have you ever heard of anything so stupid? Say, before I forget, I wanted to ask you about that costuming book—”

Joyce was directing the local community theater production of
The Importance of Being Earnest,
and Shelley had agreed to help with the costumes. The two women fell into a discussion of patterns, giving Jane time to observe them and think quietly.

This intrusion of normal, everyday concerns calmed her, and she considered Robbie's motive for killing the cleaning lady. Driven by the need to protect her job and her daughter from the taint of her first husband's public disgrace, she'd taken the ultimate step to keep it quiet. As horrible as the thought was, Jane felt a grudging sympathy for her.

But for all that, could Jane automatically eliminate everyone else who was under suspicion? She thought not. If one woman had an adequate motive, it didn't necessarily mean others didn't. What about Joyce? A woman who dusted her luggage weekly, yet kept a cleaning lady who wasn't very good? If blackmail wasn't the reason for keeping Edith on, what was? Certainly not her charming personality.

Jane propped her feet up on the vacant chair and leaned back, nursing her coffee along and studying Joyce with a trace of jealousy. She was simply adorable, there was no other word for it. Her fine, blond hair was fashionably kinky and fluffy and set off her fragile features — enormous blue eyes, a mouth that just missed being an old-fashioned Cupid's bow. And the figure that went with this was perfect. Generous breasts and shapely hips on a slim, girlish frame.

She looked — dammit! — about twenty-five. Jane knew they had to be the same age. Joyce might even be older than she. How dare she look so good? Of course, her husband was a plastic surgeon, and she'd probably had her full quota of eye lifts, tummy tucks, breast enlargements and whatever other miracles they could work these days.

What could a woman like this need to hide? Something to her husband's detriment, perhaps? Jane had doctor husbands on the brain. Would Joyce kill somebody to protect her husband? 'heseldom mentioned him. He seemed to be a workaholic, while Joyce was a "social-holic." Jane couldn't remember ever seeing them together. One or the other of them was always at soccer games and back-to-school nights — usually Joyce — but never both. Jane had never even seen him in the audience at the community theater productions. If there was a tremendous passion or loyalty in that marriage, it wasn't evident.

Aside from a possible motive, and probably more important, could she have done it? Was it physically possible? Strangling somebody must take a lot of strength. Certainly the victim fought back. Even Jane could probably toss tiny Joyce around like kindling if she tried. But, as she considered this, an image flashed through her mind. She'd gone with Shelley to a rehearsal one night last spring, and Joyce had been there,carting stage scenery around with the abandon of a seasoned dockhand. And then, if you add the sheer adrenaline of fear..

Joyce had gotten sidetracked from theater concerns momentarily and was telling a Polish joke. " — and the other one said, 'I know why we didn't get any ducks. We weren't throwing the dogs high enough.' “

Jane had heard it before and laughed politely. Shelley hadn't, and her laugh was a bit giddy, just short of going out of control.

Get your thoughts organized,
Jane scolded herself. Supposing Joyce
could
have done it, why
would
she? Asking 'Are you being blackmailed?' didn't work, as her conversation with Suzie had proved. She had to figure this out fast; Joyce was looking for her car keys.

“I've got to run," she said, standing. 'Edith is off sick today and I have a substitute. I want to keep an eye on what she's doing….”

Did she mean how well she was cleaning, or was there a concealed worry that this one would snoop around and find out something too?

“Joyce, wait a sec. There's something I want to talk to you about."

“I don't think this is the time—" Shelley said, shaking her head in warning. "Don't you have to pick Todd up from school?"

“I don't drive this afternoon," Jane said. "Joyce, I think there's something I should tell you. I know why Edith is blackmailing you.”

Joyce's eyes opened even wider, and she sat back down with a thump. "Oh…”

Ah-hah, it's true, then,
Jane thought.

Joyce's tiny chin was trembling, just like a child trying not to cry. "Oh, Jane. I didn't want anybody to know. Ever.”

How am I going to get her to tell what it was while acting like I already know? I should have worked this out better,
Jane thought in a panic. She kept her voice calm. "We're your friends. You can talk about it to us.”

Now the tears came. "You're a saint, Jane. Have you known all this time and never said anything?”