The Merchant of Menace (18 page)

“Or maybe not," Jane said. "There are murders that are never solved. I'm not entirely sure this might not be one of them.”

Sam made a
couple trips with dishes, this time
turning down Jane's offer to assist. While he was on the first trip, she took a sip of the milk substitute Pet had left in her glass. Good stuff. Tasted just like the real thing, but probably cost the earth. Thank heavens none of her own kids had allergies that demanded substitute foods. What a nuisance.

Sam called Todd and Pet back to the table and brought out dessert, which was cut-up flour tortillas, deep-fried and dusted with sugar. They helped settle the chili, he claimed. But the chili was giving Jane a bit of stomach trouble, which she hated because she'd always prided herself on having a cast-iron digestive tract.

When they finished dessert, Jane said, "That was a superb dinner, Sam," in a tone she hoped suggested finality.

“You're not leaving, are you?"

“I hate to be rude, but I do have to get back home. I still have tons to do today. I'm not even through wrapping Christmas presents."

“Oh," Pet said. "I wanted to show you my scrapbook with pictures of my mom."

“Pet, I'm sure Mrs. Jeffry can come back and see them some other time," Sam said.

But Pet looked so disappointed that Jane had to relent. "Presents can wait a little while, I guess. I'd love to see your pictures.”

While Sam cleaned up dinner, Pet got out her scrapbook which was in a protective cover. She sat down next to Jane on the sofa and presented it proudly. It was well-worn. Apparently Pet had a deep sense of loss for the mother she couldn't remember. Jane wondered if Sam had given any thought to a little therapy for the child. It couldn't be easy for him, either, being as he'd said the marriage wasn't a real good one.

The first picture was a wedding shot. Stiff, formal. Or at least the much younger Sam was standing rigid with a frozen smile. The bride, however, looked like she was having the time of her life. The photographer had caught her in what looked like the middle of a laugh. She wasn't really beautiful, except in the way all brides are automatically beautiful, but she looked high-spirited and happy. Medium-brown hair like Pet's, but lots of it, all fluffed out and curling all over the place. The gown was cut a bit low and there was an expanse of bulging bosom that wasn't quite virginal.

“Your mother was very pretty, Pet," Jane said. Pet nodded solemnly.

The next pictures were badly done snapshots. The newlywed couple posed by a presumably new car with palm trees in the background. Sitting on a beach and all but invisible under a bigumbrella. Playing with a dog in a tiny fenced yard. In every picture, Pet's mom was laughing and Sam was looking serious. No wonder they hadn't gotten along. There was just the slightest suggestion of "the floozy with a heart of gold" in Pet's mom's appearance. Not trashy, just a little more voluptuous and carefree than most women. But then, she was young, too.

“This is my favorite," Pet said, turning to a new page.

It was her mother in a maternity dress, standing sideways with a great, bulging midsection.

“That's me," Pet said with a giggle. It was the first time Jane had heard Pet sound genuinely happy. "That was the night before I was born."

“That's a great picture. I have one like that, too. The day before Mike was born. What was your mother's name, Pet?"

“Patricia. Like me. Only she was called Patty Sue.”

The rest of the pictures told a story that Pet probably wouldn't understand until she was older. The pictures of Patty Sue with Pet, and there were a lot of them, were the old Patty Sue, laughing and happy. Those with Sam and Patty Sue alone were serious. A filmed history of a marriage falling apart. Someday Jane might have to look through her photos and see if her own marriage had gone to pieces in the photo record.

Or maybe she wouldn't.

The last picture was of Pet's third birthday. She was sitting on Patty Sue's lap with a birthday cake in front of them and icing all over Pet's face. Patty Sue was wiping away tears of laughter. Sam wasn't in the picture.

“Pet, your scrapbook is wonderful. You're so lucky to have all these pictures and I'm sure you'll treasure them all your life," Jane said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffry," Pet said, closing the album and putting it in a plastic bag that protected it. Just then Todd, still playing at the computer in the den, called to her and she excused herself quite properly and left the room.

Too bad Pet hadn't gotten to have her mother a little longer, Jane thought. She might have absorbed more of the woman's sense of fun and frivolity. Pet
did
need to be tickled sometimes and Jane guessed that Patty Sue had been a tickling kind of mother.

“Sam, I have to get home," she said, going into the kitchen. "I'm worried about my water pipes. The wind's picked up and that'll make the cold worse."

“I'll drive you home," he said, closing the door on the dishwasher. The kitchen was spotless.

“No, it's only three houses away. No use you going out, too.”

Luckily, the mild fight to get Todd away from the computer game and into his outerwear prevented any extended good-byes or anything more specific than Sam's vague remark about doing this again someday. Todd raced away up the street, while Jane followed as quickly as she could without risking a fall.

As she came in the kitchen door, Todd greeted her with a grim face. "Mom, old thing, you're not going to like this.”

“Not the pipes!”

He nodded. "I went in the guest bathroom and heard a noise in the basement. Water everywhere."

“Perfect! Just perfect! Sunday night with broken pipes!"

“Go ahead, Mom. Say 'shit.' "

“
Shit!”

It
didn't help. But it made Todd yelp with laughter.

“Mrs. Pargeter, may I speak with Bruce." After a short pause, Bruce answered.

“Bruce, it's Jane Jeffry. I hate myself for asking this — I really know all about keeping pipes from freezing and I left the water running, but Katie didn't know and turned it off and what I don't know is where the little handle to turn the flow off is. I've been slogging around in the basement—" She could hear her voice rising to an hysterical squeak but couldn't help it.

“I'll find the shut-off valve for you," Bruce said calmly. "Can't fix the pipe tonight though."

“But we'll have other water, right?"

“Maybe. I'll have to see the system.”

Jane stomped around, looking for another flashlight as hers was already going dim and she was afraid to turn on the basement light. Water and electricity didn't go together well, she'd heard. Bruce arrived quickly and seemed quite confident that it was no big deal, even though he hadn't looked over the situation yet.

“Why's it dark down here?" he asked at the head of the basement stairs. Jane started to explain her understanding of electricity, but Bruce laughed, flipped on the basement light and went down the steps. He was back in less than five minutes.

“You're lucky. That guest bath is an addition to the original plan and has its own shut-off valve. I'll get back in the morning and fix it."

“I have water everywhere else? What a relief! Oh, Bruce, I'm so thankful.”

He brushed off her thanks. "I finished up Mrs. Newton's kitchen today and nobody usually wants anything done over the holidays except emergencies like this. Glad to do it. See you tomorrow.”

Weak with relief, Jane went to the comfort of her favorite squashy chair in the living room and collapsed. It was horrible to contemplate how much worse it might have been. A houseful of kids, last-minute holiday activities, and no water! Yikes!

It was Sunday night and she deserved to veg out. She wondered what was on
Masterpiece Theatre.
It was a measure of how hectic life had been the last couple days that she couldn't remember. She hoped it was something very soothing. A Jane Austen movie, maybe. She glanced at her watch and was surprised that it was only six-thirty. She looked around for the television controller, loathe to get up again even — to turn the set on. Not on the coffee table. Not at the side of the chair. She leaned forward and fished around underneath the front of the chair, then remembered that the last time she'd lost it, it was down in the plump cushions. Ah, there it was.

No, it wasn't. The hard plastic object she pulled out was a computer disk.

The missing disk? It wasn't one of hers. She only bought the brightly colored ones. This one was black. And unlabeled.

She hoisted herself out of the chair with effort and dialed Mel's number to leave a message. She was surprised that he answered. "Didn't you go out to dinner with your mother?" she asked, momentarily distracted from her purpose.

“I begged off and I'm in deep trouble. But I was cold clear through and would have died soon if I hadn't soaked in a hot bath. What's up?”

Jane reported what she'd found.

“Is it the one we're looking for?" he asked. "I imagine so. It's not one of mine. And it's not a game disk. There's no label."

“I'll be right over," he said with a martyred sigh.

Jane hung up, stood for a moment in thought, and went down to boot up her computer.

Before
Mel
could pull himself together and get over to pick up the disk, Jane's doorbell rang. It was Ginger, all bundled up and looking perky.

“I'm here for our interview," she said.

Jane didn't invite her in. "Ginger, I'm not doing an interview. Period. I told you that.”

“But I thought—"

“No, I made it very clear the first time you asked. You couldn't have misunderstood. And I'm really sorry, but I can't invite you in. I'm busy.”

Ginger looked surprised, but not offended. "Well, you win some, you lose some. Did the police find the disk?"

“No, they didn't," Jane said truthfully. She was glad Ginger hadn't phrased the question "Has the disk been found?"

“Okay," Ginger agreed a little too readily. "I'll work on another angle.”

Jane shut the door on her and watched through the little window in it as Ginger headedfor her car. Mel turned into the driveway just then and Ginger changed course. Apparently she was questioning him and he was making "no comment" gestures. She accepted this rejection as well in apparent good spirits.

Jane was standing at the door with the disk in hand when he reached her.

“You're sure this is the right one?" he asked. "No, I'm just sure it's not mine. And it was in the chair he flung himself into the night he was here.”

Mel looked miserably cold and tired as he trudged back to his car with the disk in his pocket.

Jane raced for the phone. "Shelley! I found the disk. It was in my favorite chair in the living room. Down in the cushions."

“Have you called Mel?"

“He just picked it up."

“Oh," Shelley said with disappointment. "I was hoping we could take a quick look at it before you turned it over."

“We can. I made a copy of it."

“Jane! You're brilliant!”

Shelley arrived seconds later, looking uncharacteristically disheveled. "Pop it in your computer. Let's see what's on it.”

They headed for the basement.

“What's the water over by the laundry room door?" Shelley asked.

“Broken pipe," Jane said. Half an hour ago this was a crisis; now she was hardly interested enough to answer the question.

Jane punched a few keys and produced a list of the files on the disk. "Oh, good, he's saved these in the same word processing program that I have. That'll make it easier." She punched a few more keys and sat back smugly while the computer clicked and hummed. Then a screen she'd never seen before came up.

PASSWORD:

“Password?" they said in one voice.

“Hell!" Shelley added for good measure. Jane typed in: LANCE.

The screen said: ACCESS DENIED — INVALID PASSWORD.

“Try 'King,' " Shelley said.

That didn't work either. Neither did `Lanceking' or the call letters of the television station.

“This is hopeless," Shelley said. "There are about a million words and a lot more that aren't even real words that he could have used."

“No, people usually use something that's easy to remember so they don't lock themselves out of their own stuff. I wonder if he's listed in the phone book.”

Shelley grabbed one from the shelf. "How surprising. Yes, he is. Or somebody with the same name." Shelley gave her the street address, which didn't work, and the telephone number, which didn't work either.

“Bring a pad of paper and a pencil upstairs while I make coffee," Jane said. "Let's write a list of things to try.”

They ended up with a long string of words: reporter, television, Wilhite, research, dossiers, jerk ("No, we think of him that way, he probably didn't," Shelley said), and a couple dozen others. Coffee'd up, they went back down and tried them all out. None worked."Okay," Jane said, closing her eyes as if to summon up a vision. "We have to pretend that we are Lance King—"

“Yuck."

“He'd use a word he likes," Jane said. She opened her eyes and tapped in the word "scandal.”

It didn't work. Shelley said, "No, we have to really think like he did. He didn't see his work as scandalmongering. He saw himself as the guardian of the public.”

Jane typed in "guardian.”

The computer said: PASSWORD ACCEPTED. PROCEED.

They shrieked.

Jane studied the list of files. They were numbered. She picked 001. It opened up and they groaned.

The text was in code. Not a computer code, just an ordinary code.

File 001 said:
Kamoieppi Pixvup — xet e tvoqqis op dummihi. Qsutvovoap vuu? Djidl vuxp sidusft gus vjuti ziest.