A Quiche Before Dying jj-3

by Jill Churchill

  “How do you know I haven't?" Cecily asked.

  “You're not the type. You girls with the handsome diplomat husbands never appreciate your opportunities. Here! Don't touch that!"

  “I wasn't touching anything," Ruth Rogers snapped back.

  Jane hadn't even noticed she was there. Ruth and her sister, Naomi Smith, both in patterned dresses, had blended in. They were looking at a creche made entirely of varnished nuts. As Jane looked around, she discovered that Grady Wells was present as well, nestled helplessly among the knickknacks on a small tapestry love seat. He had the look of a man who'd just been told his wife was carrying quintuplets.

  Jane went to sit next to him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

  “Huh? Oh, yes. Amazing, isn't it? I don't think I've ever come across anyone who had absolutely no taste on such a grand scale. Did you see the dish of plaster tacos?"

  “No, but I saw a wicker Madonna and child and a three-dimensional needlepoint replica of one of Ludwig's Bavarian castles.”

  He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "That room's got a huge hunting tapestry in four hundred and seven shades of brown. It actually has a museum tag that says so. It makes you feel like you've just fallen down a well and broken your leg. Geez! What a place.”

  They both looked up as Missy came into the room. She stumbled to a stop, gazing about in horror. Grady's laugh was a happy snort. Missy caught Jane's glance and came over to whisper, "Is this deliberate or has there been a terrible accident with a moving van? How do you move around in all this . . . stuff!”

  Mrs. Pryce summoned Missy to pay her respects before Jane could answer. "I'm surprised that everybody's coming to this," Jane said to Grady. "I wouldn't be here except that Shelley told me I had to, and she could be a formidable enemy."

  “I was afraid not to come, for fear of what she'd say about me behind my back," Grady replied.

  “What about Mr. Neufield? Why would he come?"

  “Is he here? Oh, yes. I see. Cowering behind the piano. I don't know. I guess just because he's so law-abiding. If he's told he has to do something, he does it. Army training in following orders, I imagine. Will Desiree show up, do you think?"

  “I hope so. I want to see her reaction.”

  They didn't have to wait long. Desiree Loftus came to a dead stop just inside the doorway. She took a quick inventory of her surroundings and started laughing. "Dear God in Heaven! Has a carnival supply warehouse blown up and all the debris landed here?”

  Everyone except Mrs. Pryce laughed. "What? What was that you said?" Pryce demanded.

  “My dear old thing," Desiree said, coming forward and shouting. "This is the most divinely gruesome accumulation I've ever seen. How did you do it?"

  “You don't make sense!" Pryce said. "Divine? Gruesome? Say what you mean or don't say anything. And don't think I'm serving any drinks here. You'll have to get your devil's brew somewhere else. This is a good Christian home."

  “Devil's brew?" Grady muttered to Jane as he nudged her gently.

  Jane went into a fit of giggles that threatened to become full-blown hysteria.

  “Dinner is ready," the elderly maid said from the doorway to the room Grady had described as the bottom of a well. Everyone picked their way through the knickknacks toward that direction, expecting to find the food they'd brought on the table, but it wasn't. Mrs. Pryce's dining table was a long, narrow trestle type that looked as if it had been looted from a dilapidated Spanish castle. There was barely room to set ten place settings, with no space left for serving dishes. They all milled around a bit, not sure if they were to sit and be served or whether they ought to organize a search party to locate the food.

  “Take your plates out to the kitchen and serve yourselves," Pryce brayed. She pointed her cane in that direction, nearly stabbing Shelley in the shoulder. Shelley whirled on her and delivered one of her Looks, which normally cowed anyone unfortunate enough to rate one. But Mrs. Pryce was as selectively blind as she was selectively deaf. She appeared not to notice Shelley's glare.

  “I'm losing my gift," Shelley said, turning to Jane with a stricken expression.

  “No, you're not. She's just that one in a million who's immune," Jane comforted her.

  The kitchen looked as if it had been pretty modern half a century before. But since then, nothing had been done except to put so many layers of paint on the cabinets that they looked rounded at the edges. Spiffy white tile counters had turned grayish yellow with age, and the grout was an indescribable color. The ancient linoleum floor had worn down to the bare wood in front of the sink. Filling their own plates turned out to be a difficult undertaking. The maid had set the various bowls and platters out all over the kitchen and the narrow pantry/hallway that led from the kitchen to the dining room. There was much confusion and jostling and backtracking.

  “We're like a bunch of lemmings who have lost their compass," Jane said as her mother backed into her.

  “I was thinking of trains in India," Cecily replied. "Everybody crowded together in a narrow space, trying to move around and eat at the same time. This is ghastly. I've already put my elbow in somebody's coleslaw."

  “Don't spill anything on yourself," Shelley said, squeezing in next to Jane and trying to snake her arm through for a ham and egg roll. "I should have thrown a drop cloth over you to keep you tidy. Go sit down."

  “I am sitting down. It just looks like I'm standing," Jane said with a laugh. "It's the press of the crowd that's keeping me at this level.”

  Jane finally extricated herself and went to the table, balancing a plate. Someone had apparently mistaken her plate for his or her own in the crush and put a glop of something with rice and coconut on hers that she would never have considered even tasting. Someone must have filled a plate for Mrs. Pryce, probably the maid, because Pryce hadn't been fighting the crowd in the kitchen. She was sitting at the head of the table in regal splendor in a thronelike chair that was the match of the one she'd occupied earlier.

  “Where's my tea?" Mrs. Pryce suddenly said to the room at large. Those who were struggling to sit down and finding themselves literally rubbing elbows ignored her. "I guess I just have to do everything myself," she said, struggling to her feet and barging toward the pantry hallway.

  “Funny, I had the impression she did nothing herself," Missy said.

  “Is there salt on the table?" Desiree asked. There was a general shifting as everyone looked for it. "Oh, there. Bob, next to you." Everybody had to shift their elbows around to pass a china salt shaker in the shape of a thatched cottage.

  “Sorry, Grady," Missy said as she jostled his arm, causing him to drop his spoon.

  “What is this green stuff?" somebody asked.

  Ruth kept looking back over her shoulder at the multitudinously brown tapestry as if it might suddenly fling itself over her head and smother her. Every time she craned around, she jostled her sister, Naomi, who was picking fretfully at her food.

  “Is this part of you or me?" Cecily asked Shelley, slowly adjusting her legs under the table.

  “Oh, I didn't get anything to drink either," Jane said, getting back up. "Mom? Shelley? You want-anything?"

  “I'll get myself some coffee," Shelley said, joining her. The crowd in the hall had thinned out, and there was no sign of Mrs. Pryce. Jane noticed that there was another door to the kitchen, presumably leading to the gloomy front hall. Mrs. Pryce must have gone that way. The maid was sitting on a high stool by the sink, staring out the window and absently picking at a hangnail.

  Jane and Shelley got their drinks and returned to find most of the others crawling around on the floor, trying to help Grady find his contact lens. Mrs. Pryce found it by stepping on it as she came through from the living room. Instead of apologizing to Grady, she gave a general lecture on the wickedness of modern things, pointing out that spectacles were good enough for her generation.

  “Okay, that's all I can stand," Grady said, huffing a little as he got up from the floor. "Could somebo
dy drive me home to get my glasses?”

  There was a deafening chorus of volunteers.

  “I've got to pick up something for class anyway," Missy outshouted the rest. "I'll take you, Grady. There won't be time to get back. We'll see the rest of you later," she said, all but skipping in her haste to escape.

  Jane watched them leave, sadly. She glanced at her watch. They'd only been there half an hour, and it already seemed like days and days. If it weren't for her obligation to her mother—and to Priscilla—she'd have run sobbing after Grady and Missy, begging to go with them.

  7

  “I think a teacher ought to be like the captain of a ship—the last one off in case of disaster," Jane said darkly to Missy as they came into the classroom.

  Missy laughed. "You're all grown-ups, and perfectly able to fend for yourselves. And you did survive, or you wouldn't be here to bitch at me now.”

  Jane slipped another envelope onto the desk. "A little more of Priscilla," she said in a low tone.

  “Oh, good! Jane, I want to talk to you about this. Can I come by in the morning?"

  “Sure.”

  The rest of the class was trailing in, giving Missy and Grady dirty looks. Grady looked guilty. Missy didn't. Mrs. Pryce was last. She again took her place center front. Nobody would have dared to take her place.

  “I still smell like that house," Shelley muttered.

  Missy started her lecture. "Tonight I want to start class by talking about some basic rules of good writing that apply no matter what the subject matter, whether fiction or nonfiction—”

  Mrs. Pryce coughed several times.

  Missy waited politely, then went on, "First, I have a handout here that lists some good basic grammar books and style sheets that you might want to get.

  You should have one of these handy as you continue your writing. Grady, will you pass these out for me?”

  He bounced up, took the sheets, and started distributing them. As he reached Mrs. Pryce, she grabbed hers and said, "Get me a drink of water."

  “In a minute," Grady said, leaning across her to give a sheet to Ruth Rogers on her other side.

  Mrs. Pryce slapped his arm away. "Now!”

  Grady shrugged and went out into the hall. Mrs. Pryce craned her neck around and glared at the rest of them. "What are you all gawking at? You're all fools!"

  “Mrs. Pryce, I'm going to have to ask you to leave if there's one more outburst," Missy said firmly.

  Pryce either didn't hear her or pretended not to. "Where has that idiot man gone?" she said. "Just go back to your business. All of you. I'll have my husband see to things if I have to.”

  Jane felt a shiver of apprehension. General Pryce, if she remembered correctly, had been dead for some years.

  Grady came in with a paper cup of water. As he handed it to Mrs. Pryce, she had a coughing spasm. She gulped down the water, choked slightly, and said, "Why are you turning those lights up? You're doing this to harass me. Well, you'll just all blind yourselves in the bargain, and it'll serve you right. You're all against me. Don't think I don't know it—" Her voice was rising, sounding dry and hoarse. Naomi, looking paler than usual and obviously alarmed, inched her chair a fraction closer to Jane and her mother. Mrs. Pryce thrashed her cane around, knocking it against a few chairs before she settled it firmly on the floor and started to rise. But she fell back in her chair heavily.

  “You!" she said, suddenly focusing on Bob Neufield. "You got just what you deserved, and don't try to tell me otherwise. You depraved pretty boys don't deserve to have the opportunity to serve a fine country like this—”

  Bob Neufield drew himself up and looked as if he'd been stabbed in the heart.

  “Mrs. Pryce, you must be quiet!" Missy said, looking around frantically. "What's the matter with you?"

  “I'll get you some more water. Just settle down." Grady spoke to her as if she were a badly behaved child.

  “You'll blind yourselves. It'll serve you right," Mrs. Pryce said. Her glare had turned to a squint and she was shivering uncontrollably.

  Ruth Rogers had risen from her chair; she put one hand on Mrs. Pryce's forehead and grabbed her wrist with the other. Mrs. Pryce struggled. "Take your hands off me! How dare you touch me, you disgusting woman!”

  Ruth hung on, looking at Missy. "She's feverish and her pulse is very fast."

  “I'll call an ambulance," Missy said, coming around the desk and racing from the room.

  Jane looked at her mother. "Is there anything we should do?"

  “Let's clear a path for the medics.”

  Mrs. Pryce was still raving and trying to get away from Ruth, who was keeping her firmly in her chair. Ruth's frail sister, Naomi, was helping to hang on to the elderly woman, who was showing surprising strength. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily started pushing the chairs to the side of the room, making a wide aisle. Desiree Loftus, looking terrified, got up and started helping them. Bob Neufield was standing back, look‑ ing like a military guard who was under orders not to react.

  They could already hear the sirens. "Here, let's get out of the way," Grady said, and with Bob Neufield's help, started pushing everybody except Ruth and Naomi toward the door. The women started snatching up their belongings and going into the hallway.

  Jane was nearly run over by three ambulance attendants as she left. She slipped past them and leaned against the hallway wall. "I need some fresh air," she said, feeling woozy.

  Cecily grabbed her arm and steered her up the stairway and toward the exit. Just as they reached the foyer and front double door of the city hall, one of the doors was yanked open, nearly spilling them outside.

  “Jane! Are you all right?" Mel VanDyne said, steadying her.

  She looked up. "Just a tad faint. What are you doing here?"

  “I was in the station doing some work when the call came in about a woman down in the basement of the city hall. I was afraid—well, I'm glad you're okay. What happened?"

  “An old lady in our class had a stroke or a fit or something. It was horrible." She took a deep breath and looked at him. "It's nice to see you again," she added, aware that it wasn't a particularly appropriate thing to say. Still, he looked even better than she'd remembered him, and he looked especially good when he was showing concern for her. He was a remarkably handsome man, even more so than she'd remembered. Why was it that men tended to improve with age and women tended to unravel? Jane wondered.

  Cecily cleared her throat pointedly.

  “Oh, sorry. Mother, this is Mel VanDyne. Mel, my mother, Cecily Grant."

  “Now I see where you get your looks," Mel said, grinning. It was a hokey, cliched thing to say, but he carried it off. "I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Grant."

  “Hadn't you better go downstairs?" Jane said.

  “No, I'm just a spectator. Nothing suspicious about this, is there?"

  “Nothing at all," Cecily said. "Just a very mean elderly lady going to meet her maker—and probably tell him just what he's done wrong with the world.”

  They perched in a row on the edge of a flower box by the doors. The red lights of the ambulance were streaking blindingly around the parking lot, making all of them and the building turn red every few seconds. Another police car pulled up, and the officers nodded to VanDyne as they went into the building. A moment later, Ruth and Naomi came out the door, with Shelley just behind. Naomi had her hand out as if longing to stabilize herself against her sturdy, competent sister.

  “How is she?" Jane asked.

  “Dead," Shelley said bluntly. "At least she went out completely in character. Oh, it's Detective VanDyne, isn't it? Nice to see you again."

  “How are you, Mrs. Nowack? And what do you mean about going out in character?"

  “She was a dreadful, nasty woman. Made my mother-in-law look like Mother Teresa. She had some kind of seizure and was saying terrible things about everybody. What do we do now?”

  The door had opened again as she was speaking. "You could get out of the way," Grady said. He was
propping the double doors open. Jane expected the ambulance attendants to be just behind him, but Missy, Bob Neufield, and Desiree Loftus came out next. Neufield's face was white and set in a grimace, and Desiree looked suddenly old and vulnerable. She had her hand on his arm lightly.

  “Gather around," Missy said in her best schoolteacher manner. "Are we all here? Yes, I believe so. In spite of this tragic and terribly upsetting occurrence, I believe the class should go on. We won't, of course, reconvene tonight, but I suggest we meet tomorrow night at the usual time and go an hour extra. I have a lot of material to cover, and you've all paid good money for it. Is that satisfactory? Everyone?”

  There was a faint chorus of agreement.

  “Your teacher's a sensible woman," Mel murmured to Jane.

  “Very well," Missy said. "I suggest we all go home and try to put this out of our minds as best we can. It's not acceptable to speak ill of the dead, but Mrs. Pryce was not a valuable addition to the class, and I genuinely look forward to seeing the rest of you tomorrow." She smiled at Jane. "See? I don't believe in anybody going down with the ship.”

  They were all drifting away from the front doors when Jane suddenly said, "Mrs. Pryce's maid! She ordered the poor old thing to pick her up after class. Somebody should tell her.”

  ‑ Missy sighed. "I guess it's my responsibility. I'll run by there."

  “Do you want Jane and me to go with you?" Mel said.

  “Yes, that would be nice—who are you?" Jane made the introductions.

  “A detective?" Missy said, alarmed.

  “Off duty. Jane and I had a date after class."

  “Well, well, well," Missy said, smiling at Jane like a fond auntie. "How nice. I don't mean to ruin your evening, but I would appreciate it if you'd run by there with me for a minute. The maid will probably be pleased to know that her bondage is over, but who knows? I wouldn't know what to do with her if she went to pieces on me.”

  As they were getting into Mel's car, the ambulance attendants were maneuvering a gurney out through the doors. The figure on it was completely covered. Jane knew she should feel sadness at Mrs. Pryce's death, but could only be sad about her life—her wasted, empty, mean-spirited life, filled only with souvenirs. Jane suddenly realized that in all the trash and treasures, there hadn't been a single picture of a person.