Shelley joined her at the table, setting cups around. "You might be right. I did some volunteer work at a nursing home for a while. There was a man there, not all that old, but he'd had a stroke. He was belligerent and had the foulest mouth I've ever heard. His family was always visiting and always left in tears. Apparently he'd been a gentle, kind person before. The doctor and nurses kept explaining to them that the stroke had triggered activity in some part of his mind that we all have, but normally repress. I guess his inhibitions had been cut off somehow. Maybe that's what age has done to Mrs. Pryce."
“That woman never did have inhibitions," Jim said, turning off the faucet and looking at the drip with irritation. "This needs work, too."
“Jim, this was far worse than I remembered her," Cecily Grant said. "This poor woman who has some illness sat down next to her, and Pryce behaved like she'd been thrust into the middle of a leper colony. She called another woman a drunk and accused the mayor of embezzling the town treasury. All that before the class even started. That's when she went to work on the teacher for writing pornography.”
Katie burst in just then, and there were five minutes of hugging and kissing and shopping plans between granddaughter and grandmother.
“Jane, I ran into whatsisname today," Jim said when the greetings had died down.
“Which whatsisname?"
“VanDyne."
“Oh?" Jane was elaborately casual.
“Yeah, said he was going to give you a call. Hadn't seen you in a while."
“I've been right here.”
Jim glanced up from the offending plumbing, sur‑ prised at her arch tone. "Yeah—but he hasn't, you know. He's been teaching some law enforcement seminars out in California."
“Who are you talking about?" Cecily Grant asked. "Mel VanDyne, Mother. I wrote to you about him.
The detective I invited to Christmas dinner with us." "Oh, yes. The fabled Christmas dinner when Todd got sick."
“Todd couldn't help it. I never heard from VanDyne again. I guess he thought somebody always threw up on Christmas around here. Long family tradition. After all, if the president can upchuck at a state dinner, why should Todd be any different?"
“Jane, I'm sorry," her mother said.
“No, don't be. It's nothing," Jane said.
But it was. Mel VanDyne had been her first timid venture back into the world of romance after being widowed, and she'd been humiliated when he never called back after the ill-fated dinner. She'd beat herself up about it for weeks. What had she expected? He was younger than she, extraordinarily good-looking, and sophisticated in the real world. She, on the other hand, was domestic to the eyebrows, wallowing in children, pets, recipes, cleaning products, and PTA committees. What possible interest could a handsome bachelor have in her? And yet, she'd been instrumental in helping him solve a couple of crimes, and the reason she was able to help was that she understood the suburban life that she was so thoroughly a part of and he didn't. Still, he had probably regarded that as a helpful- trait, not a sexy one.
“You aren't going back, are you?" Jim was asking.
It took a second to hoist herself out of her reverie.
"You mean to class? Sure. Missy's a terrific teacher."
“Besides, we're committed now," Shelley said. "We've been summoned to dinner at Pryce's tomorrow. A sort of royal command."
“We have?"
“Jane, I'm worried about you," Shelley said. "Don't you remember? Where is your mind? Mrs. Pryce announced that we would all meet for dinner at her house. You even asked if there was anything you could bring."
“I must have been on autopilot. Whenever people talk about getting together, I go into my casserole mode. What did I offer to cook?"
“A quiche," Shelley said.
“What? I don't know how to make quiche. I'd never volunteer that."
“No, it was assigned you. I was assigned a fruit salad—no pineapple. Don't you really remember?" "I guess it is ringing a faint bell."
“I'll make your quiche, Jane," her mother offered. "I've got a great recipe that uses chicken and asparagus—"
“You don't mean you're all really going to her house, do you?" Jim said. "Why would she invite you, anyway?"
“She just wants to show off her house, I guess. And yes, we have to go. We can't leave the others unprotected," Cecily explained.
“I tried to wriggle out," Shelley put in. "Missy nearly slapped me. She said if she had to go, we all had to."
“Besides, I'm curious to see how she lives," Cecily said. "It'll probably give me stories to dine out on for weeks."
“But why would anyone go? You should have all refused," Jim insisted. He was a lifelong bachelor, and the ways of women never stopped surprising him.
“If we'd had any warning, I imagine we would have," Cecily said. "But, Jim, I've been to dinners where I was expected to eat eels—and act as though I like them. If I can survive that, dinner with Mrs. Pryce ought to be a piece of cake. Now, Katie, let's go sit in the living room and plan our shopping tomorrow. I want to take some notes on your closet.”
Shelley told everyone good night and took off. Jane opened the refrigerator door, wondering if she had the necessary ingredients for quiche. She was hard-pressed to remember what went into a quiche. It was just a custard without the sugar, wasn't it? As she was standing and staring stupidly into the white box, Uncle Jim came over and put his arm around her. "Janey, what's wrong? You aren't acting like yourself.”
She shut the refrigerator door and hugged him hard. "I'm fine, Uncle Jim. Really fine. And the garage door works beautifully. Thanks for fixing it. I kept hoping something truly terrible would happen to it and I could persuade the insurance company to pay for fixing it."
“I don't think you should be taking this class. It's making you unhappy," he said to the top of her head.
“No, it's really not. I'm not unhappy. I've just got something on my mind."
“Anything I can help with?"
“No, it's nothing bad. In fact, it's kind of exciting and nice. Let's take a couple beers out on the patio."
“So, what's up?" Jim asked when they were settled outside. "Is it VanDyne? I don't think the bastard's right for you, honey.”
Jane laughed. "Uncle Jim, Mel VanDyne and Ihave no relationship at all—not that I'd mind if we did. Just out of curiosity, though, why isn't he right for me?"
“He's too slick."
“And I'm a hayseed?"
“Naw, that's not what I mean. Anyway, I think—well, I think he's younger than you."
“You say that as if it's a dark, dirty secret. He's four years younger than I am. I asked."
“See?"
“That doesn't matter these days, Uncle Jim." "It should."
“You sweet old reactionary. Well, it's not Mel on my mind anyway. It's something I'm writing for Missy's class. We were supposed to write an autobiography, but I didn't want to. So I invented a person to write about, and I can't keep my mind off her.”
Jim looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "You're sure that's all?”
She took a sip of her beer. "Yes, I think so....”
In the morning Katie and Cecily set off on their shopping expedition. "Operation Desert Shop," Jane called it. They had lists of stores to visit, and had taken a quick inventory of Katie's clothing so that Cecily would know the gaps that needed filling. They planned to start with underwear and finish with shoes, and fit in a lunch somewhere along the line.
Jane glanced at their itinerary. "Mom, Design Delight isn't in the mall. It's—"
“A block to the west in the little strip of shops with the green roof, isn't it?" Cecily said.
“Yes. How do you know that?"
“We went there once," Cecily explained. "I'll get things for the quiche and be home in time to make it.”
Jane saw them off, sorted out a cat tiff, and took a quick tour of the house. For once, there wasn't anything that desperately needed attention. She'd done a thorough cleaning befo
re her mother came, and with the boys gone, the laundry situation was under control. There were hardly enough dirty dishes to justify running the dishwasher, and Katie had not only cleaned her room but, astonishingly, made her bed in honor of her grandmother's visit.
Smiling, Jane turned the kitchen radio to a classical music station and sat down at the table with a legal pad and pencil. "Well, Priscilla, what shall we do today?" she said.
The phone rang at one o'clock. "Yes?" Jane said sharply, irritated at being interrupted. She and Priscilla were in the midst of an adventure, and Jane was dying to see how it came out.
“Jane? This is Mel VanDyne.”
Gulp! Nicely—but not too nicely—Jane said, "Oh, hello. How are you, Mel?"
“Fine. How are you getting along?"
“Just fine." God! I'm so boring! Say something fascinating! Quick!
“Listen, Jane—I've been out of town, and I wondered, that is, would you be free this evening?"
“What did you have in mind?" That was cool, wasn't it? Cool, or just bitchy?
“Dinner, a movie?"
“I'd love t— oh, no. I can't. I'm taking a class. It's not out until nine-thirty."
“Then how about after your class?"
“Where would we go then?" Jane asked, then feltstupid. Just because she was usually home by nine didn't mean the world shut down at that hour.
“I don't know. How about going for drinks? Maybe some dancing?”
Dancing! She hadn't danced for a decade! "How about ice cream and talk, Mel? I want to hear about what you've been doing, and bars are so noisy." She'd probably find out that bars were quiet these days and she'd shown herself up as completely out of touch, but she couldn't face dancing without a couple weeks of practice. Lessons, more likely. The last dance she'd really mastered had been the twist.
“Sounds great. I'll pick you up from your class. Where is it?"
“The city hall. It's not a real class for credit. Just a community thing." What was she explaining that for? Get a grip on yourself Jane.
“Good. I'll get some paperwork caught up at the office and pick you up at nine-thirty. Jane ...?" "Yes?"
“I'm looking forward to seeing you."
“Me, too. 'Bye, Mel." She hung up the phone, hugged herself, and spun around the room. Cats scattered from her path. "I've got a date tonight, Meow. A real, live date with a man who voluntarily asked me out!" She scooped the orange cat up and waltzed into the living room.
Unfortunately, she caught sight of herself as she whirled past a mirror.
“Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, letting Meow escape her grasp. She peered into the glass. "Hair! Clothes! Makeup!" she said to the disheveled image.
6
Shelley dropped by while Jane was in the midst of a facial. "Oh, you decided to try that stuff? You look like a mummified raccoon."
“But underneath, I'm gorgeous. Wait a minute. It's time to wash it off. Come on upstairs and look at my closet. I need your help.”
When Jane emerged from the bathroom, her face scrubbed and shining, Shelley was sitting on the edge of the bed. "What's up?"
“I've got a date tonight."
“A date! Who?"
“Mel VanDyne. And I'm behaving like an idiot. I know it. But I don't know what to wear. Something casual, but not sloppy. Feminine but not girlish. He's picking me up from class, so it has to be something I might normally wear to class."
“Okay. Where are you going?"
“Nowhere much. Ice cream."
“He invited you out for ice cream? What a cheapskate!"
“No. He invited me dancing, but I don't think I remember how to dance. Shelley, it's been more than twenty years since I've had a real date."
“But not since you've been asked. Remember that."
“Oh, sure. The neighborhood sleezeballs whopounce on anybody who looks like they're free. That one who wears the polyester leisure suits is still calling me every month or so. He must have a roster he goes through. And there's the one with the potbelly and load of gold chains who calls everybody 'babe.' You know, he called me a week after Steve died. A week! I was so offended that I burst into tears. He took it for encouragement." Jane shuddered at the memory.
“Pink. An apricotish pink," Shelley mused. "I'll be right back." She dashed off and returned a few minutes later with a blouse in a dry cleaning bag. "This is it. Do you have a lace bra?"
“One."
“Good. This fabric is just thin enough that a lace bra will barely show through. Sexy without being blatant. With your white skirt. And you can't carry that hideous saddlebag purse. He'll think you're going on a camp-out."
“You know I operate on the assumption that I might run into Pierce Brosnan any moment, and if he asks me to run away with him, I'll be ready to go."
“Ice cream and running away are miles apart. I have a little white clutch you can use.”
They settled on shoes and jewelry and were debating over hose when Katie and Cecily got home. "Hey, Mom, you've got to see what we—" Katie began, then looked around Jane's bedroom. Rejected clothing was strewn everywhere. "Hey, this looks like my room. What's going on?"
“Your mother has a date tonight."
“A date?" A series of expressions crossed her face in rapid succession. She settled on pleased surprise. "Cool, Mom. Who?"
“Detective VanDyne," Jane said.
“Yeah? He's okay. For an old guy.”
Jane came over and hugged her daughter. "You just put everything into perspective. Let's see your new stuff.”
At quarter of six they dutifully assembled to go to Mrs. General Pryce's. They were going in Shelley's van because it had a flat area in the back where they could set the food without it spilling. Jane had the two quiches she'd made under her mother's direction; Shelley had her fruit salad, and Cecily had voluntarily contributed some cheese and olive puffs and a plate of deviled eggs.
“I saw her make them," Jane said to Shelley in an aggrieved tone when Cecily went back inside for her purse. "I used exactly the same recipe, and when I cook those olive things, the dough runs down and pools. They look like something from one of those obscene bakeries. Hers puff up."
“Don't be cranky, Jane. You do lots of things better than she does," Shelley said.
“Name four. Never mind. I'd hate to watch you struggle to come up with them. I can feel my hair falling."
“Your hair looks great, and if I catch you near a bottle of hair spray, I'll break your wrist."
“Oh, Shelley, I'm acting like an ass and I can't stop myself. Priscilla wouldn't behave like this." "Priscilla? Who the hell is Priscilla?"
“Never mind. Remind me again why we're doing this."
“Because Missy will kill us if we don't.”
Cecily came back to the car. "Mom, are you sure you don't mind my going out tonight after class?" Jane asked.
“Of course I don't. I'm not company, I'm your mother," Cecily said firmly. "Katie and I can talk about you behind your back this way," she added with a smile as Shelley backed the van out.
Mrs. Pryce's home was one of the older ones in the neighborhood. It had been built when their suburb was still a distinct town, before Chicago had oozed out and encircled it. There were uninspired flower beds in front and overgrown hedges along the property lines on either side. A not very subtle marking out of her turf, Jane thought. The harsh white paint on the house looked as if it was ready to peel any second. They were met at the door by a maid in uniform. She was an old lady, vaguely Asian, probably Filipino or Thai, and surly-looking. Who wouldn't be, Jane thought, having to work for Mrs. Pryce? "Welcome, misses," she said, relieving them of as many dishes as she could.
Jane walked and was suddenly struck blind in the dark hallway. "The waste-not-want-not school of lighting," Shelley murmured, reaching for Jane's arm.
They stumbled into the living room, where there was a little more light. Shelley's hand on Jane's arm tightened and she gasped. The house was so crammed with artifacts that th
e eye could hardly figure out what to focus on. Mrs. Pryce had apparently spent the last six or seven decades traveling around the world and picking up everything she could find. Oriental brass figurines fought for shelf space with glazed South American pottery. Spanish shawls covered tables and were themselves covered by Belgian lace and mixes of fake and real Meissen ornaments. Japanese lacquer bowls jostled for space with Chinese cloisonné and cheap plastic pennants. A nest of primitive dolls was stuffed into a big, footed silver bowl that sat on a fragile inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl Burmese table.
The air smelled like a neglected museum—warm, musty, with a faint undertone of mildew and marble polish. There was no air-conditioning, just a few feeble table fans barely turning. Jane supposed the only thing that kept them all from suffocating was the fact that the ceilings were so high in the old house.
She stared for a moment before turning to her mother, who was grinning. "There are bazaar merchants all over the earth who rub their hands together at the thought of her," Cecily murmured.
“I see you're admiring my treasures," Mrs. Pryce said.
For a moment Jane couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from, then she sorted out the visual overload and identified Mrs. Pryce near a window that was covered with layers of curtains. She was sitting on a high-backed chair with some sort of finials at the top—slightly thronelike. Her smug expression made clear that she was genuinely proud of all the junk the rest of them considered so tacky.
“This is all very—interesting," Jane said with a straight face. She heard a noise behind her that sounded like Shelley grinding her teeth.
“Your mother could have a house like this, full of lovely memories, if only she'd planned ahead," Mrs. Pryce said to Jane as if Cecily weren't present.
“You planned this?" Jane asked.
Stunning thought.
“Certainly. All the years that we were collecting, we were having things sent back to storage. Then, when my husband retired, we moved back here and started setting things out. I can't tell you the pleasureit was to meet old memories. It's a shame you haven't done the same," she added, this time speaking directly to Cecily.
A Quiche Before Dying jj-3 Page 4
