A Quiche Before Dying jj-3

by Jill Churchill

  They rang the bell three times. Finally the maid opened the door. Although it was nearly dark, she was shading her eyes and squinting. "Yes? Who are you? Misses, she's out."

  “I'm the teacher. Mrs. Jeffry and I were here a while ago at dinner," Missy said. "May we come in?"

  “Yes. But misses not here." She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and seemed slightly unbalanced by the action. She steadied herself against the doorframe for a moment, then stood aside.

  They followed her into the front hall. "I'm afraid we have bad news," Missy said. "Mrs. Pryce became ill during class—"

  “Yes, yes. I pick her up."

  “No, you don't have to pick her up. She's been taken to the hospital—"

  “Keys. Car keys. Don't know where—the lawn.

  Yes. Water the lawn—storm coming," she said, then lapsed into babbling in a foreign language.

  Mel was looking a question at Missy and Jane. "Is she crazy?" he seemed to be asking.

  “—and then we go to market," the maid said. She staggered, and Jane grabbed her to keep her from falling.

  “Mel, there's something wrong. This is how Mrs. Pryce was acting—sensitive to light, raving, off balance.”

  The woman was leaning against the doorframe, clutching at her chest.

  “Where's the phone?" Mel demanded.

  Missy tried to calm the maid down while Mel and Jane searched for a phone. When he found it, he dialed quickly, identified himself, and gave Mrs. Pryce's address. "Send an ambulance and seal off the city hall. I think it may be a crime scene.”

  He hung up and looked at Jane, who was helping Missy get the maid to sit down on a settee in the front hall. "You sure are a fun date," he said wryly.

  8

  Missy came by at ten the next morning. Jane had been up since eight but still felt blurry. It had been a late night.

  “Can you stand company?" Missy said. She was looking a little haggard, too.

  “Sure. Come in. Want some iced tea?"

  “Only if you throw it in my face to wake me up." "Were you up late, too?"

  “There were policemen questioning me until nearly two, then I couldn't get to sleep. Gee, it's quiet. Where is everybody else?"

  “Katie's still in bed, and my mother's gone to visit an old friend in Evanston. I couldn't sleep last night either. Then when I finally dropped off, Mel called around four to let me know that the maid—her name's Maria Espinoza, by the way—is probably going to recover. They pumped her stomach right away on the assumption that it might have been something they both ate."

  “And what did they find?"

  “I don't know. Mel says the pathology people say the symptoms could point to any number of poisons. But they won't know until they've done an autopsy on Mrs. Pryce and analyzed Maria's stomach contents. Ugh! Imagine doing that for a living."

  “So that's why they kept asking me about the dinner."

  “I guess so. The man who interviewed me wanted to know who'd brought what."

  “I assume they're considering it a deliberate poisoning?" Missy asked.

  “I don't know what else it could be. I mean, if a poison had accidentally been in any of the dishes, more than two people would have gotten sick. We were all pretty polite about trying a little of everything. And if it had been some weird allergic reaction, it probably would have affected only one person. But it's crazy anyway."

  “What do you mean?"

  “Just that she was a first-class bitch, but so are lots of people, and they don't get killed. If this was poisoning and it was deliberate, it means one of the people in the class might have done it, and that's unbelievable."

  “Unlikely, I'll grant," Missy said. "I think I will take you up on that tea offer, if you don't mind."

  “Okay. Let's take them outside while it's still nice. It's supposed to be in the nineties later today.”

  It was already warm, but still just barely pleasant outdoors. There had been a little rain overnight, and the garden looked refreshed. Willard came out with them for a little romp in the vegetables before he got on with the doggy business of barking at birds.

  “It's more than just unlikely that it was someone in class," Jane continued as they settled themselves under the patio umbrella. She yelled at Willard, who reluctantly came back and flopped down under her chair. "Killing somebody must be a huge thing in a person's life. If you were given to murdering peoplejust because they were annoying as hell, you'd give in to the urge early in life, wouldn't you?"

  “I'm not sure I follow this," Missy said.

  “Well, forgive my frankness, but nobody in the class, including us, is exactly a spring chicken. And I think we can assume that none of us has ever killed anybody before."

  “Not to my recollection. Except maybe Bob Neufield," Missy said, pushing her hair back out of her eyes and fishing in her purse for her sunglasses.

  “Why him in particular?"

  “Just because I assume from his manner that he was in the military or law enforcement or one of those immaculately ironed professions. The man has ramrod posture, and his clothes never have so much as a wrinkle. So if he were military, he might have killed someone in war. He's probably old enough to have been in Korea and Vietnam."

  “I see what you mean," Jane said. "Did you hear Mrs. Pryce yell something at him about serving his country?"

  “Yes. Suggesting that he was a pansy who got thrown out on his ear. Poor guy. He'd been about the only one who'd escaped her nasty tongue, and then she caught him at the end."

  “Do you suppose it's true?" Jane asked. "Normally I wouldn't give a damn, but under the circumstances, maybe it's important. Did you tell the police about her saying that?"

  “I don't know if it's true, and no, I didn't tell the police. I didn't remember it until now. Listen, Jane, I don't mean to sound callous—I'm truly concerned about this, but I actually came to talk to you about something else, and I don't want it to get lost in this mess. I want to talk to you about your Priscilla project."

  “Oh, yes?" Had it suddenly gotten hotter or was it just her nerves coming to life? Missy looked at her over the top of her sunglasses. "Yes. Let me ask you something—are you having fun doing this or are you just being dutiful about class?"

  “I'm having fun. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit how much fun it is ..." Jane paused. "No, that's not entirely accurate. I'm enjoying it, but mostly I'm obsessing on it. I guess with two of my kids gone, I need another outlet for that maternal urge to try to run somebody's life. The nice thing about Priscilla is that she has to do what I say. I wouldn't tell this to anybody but you, but even as upset as I was last night, I sat down for a half an hour or so and scribbled a few notes on things I'd thought of for Priscilla to say and do. It's weird, though. I'm not so sure she'll be willing to say and do them—”

  Missy nodded. "That's what I'd hoped—and was half-afraid—you'd say. Jane, I don't want to shock you, but I think you're coming down with a book. I know the signs."

  “Coming down ... ? You mean writing a book?" Jane scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to write a whole book."

  “You write it one page at a time. Just like you're doing."

  “No, I'd never consider it. Really.”

  This whole concept was so revolutionary it almost took her breath away. Could ordinary, real people write books? Missy did. Wow! For a minute it was as if Mrs. Pryce had never existed, much less gotten herself murdered.

  “I'm sorry to have to tell you this: You don't getto consider it," Missy was saying. "Writing is something you have to do. An obsession; you use your own word. The world is made up of people who can't write and those who can't help but write. Still, I won't push you. I just wanted to tell you that if you decide to give a serious shot at writing a book, I'd be thrilled to help you.”

  Willard lumbered to his feet and put a paw on Jane's knee. She absentmindedly fished an ice cube out of her tea and gave it to him. He settled back down, chewing noisily. "Do you mean
you think this story of mine really could be a book?" Jane asked.

  Missy nodded. "It's remarkably good writing for a beginner. Of course, good writing isn't everything—there's structuring and marketing and a lot more. But good writing is the first essential.”

  They heard the gate squeak, and a moment later Shelley appeared. "Good. You're still here. Mel VanDyne just called me. He said you didn't answer your phone, and asked if I knew what had become of you. I told him I could see you and Missy out here, and he asked everybody to stay put."

  “Pitcher of iced tea on the counter," Jane said, feeling this was adequate hostessing for Shelley. She was still trying to cope with what Missy had said.

  “Maybe later," Shelley said.

  “Not more questions from VanDyne," Missy said. "I'm getting real bored with the few facts I know. It's only a matter of time before I start embroidering them with fictional fillips. Fiction writers are born liars.”

  Shelley reached toward Jane's glass, which Jane snatched away. "Get your own," she said.

  Before Shelley got back, Jane could hear a car door slamming in the driveway. "Around back!" she shouted inelegantly. She was glad that, tired as she was, she'd washed her hair this morning and put on decent clothes. Mel was back in his detective mode, but he might notice her as a woman instead of a peripheral object in an investigation.

  He came out onto the patio, holding a glass of tea Shelley had forced on him. She was right behind with the pitcher and a bucket of ice on a tray. Jane wondered how Shelley'd gotten the ice maker to give up its cubes. It tended to create one large, lumpy mass instead of individual pieces. But there wasn't a household appliance in the world that could best Shelley.

  Mel sat down with a sigh. The rest of them had at least gotten a few fleeting hours of sleep; Mel must have been up all night. He was wearing the same clothes, but except for the weary sigh, he looked fresh and bright. He repeated what he'd told Jane earlier about Maria Espinoza and the tests. They still didn't have definitive results. "So, ladies, I'd like to go over the food and seating arrangements and so forth with you.”

  Willard had finished his ice cube and finally noticed there were newcomers. He shambled over to put his head on Mel's thigh. Mel patted his big, square head and waved his hand at the cloud of gnats that went everywhere the dog went.

  “We've all been questioned about that already," Missy said. "Can't we go on to something else? It's like revising the same chapter over and over."

  “Not until we've got this sorted out. Now, who could have put something in the quiche or the tea?”

  Jane sat up straight. "Why the quiche and tea especially?""Because that's all the maid had in her stomach.

  Mrs. Pryce had apparently eaten all kinds of stuff." "But I made the quiche," Jane objected. "Exactly," he said coolly, staring back at her. "You don't think I poisoned her?"

  “As a matter of fact, I don't, but somebody apparently did, and it's my sad job to find out who and how. I have to assume that the quiche itself wasn't poisoned, or other people would have become ill, too. So it must have been put in her food or her drink after she got her plate and cup. Now, where was she sitting? Who could have exchanged her plate or added something to her food?"

  “Anybody," Shelley and Missy said together.

  Shelley took up the explanation. "The dining room is a very crowded little space, and everybody was crammed together. We were all reaching over and past each other and banging our elbows together. Mrs. Pryce sat at the head of the table with her back to the hallway and kitchen, where the dishes were set out. We had to squeeze past her and each other to get around at all."

  “Did she fill her own plate?”

  The three women exchanged glances. "I don't think so," Jane finally said. "At least she wasn't in with the lost lemmings."

  “I beg your pardon?"

  “I mean she wasn't stuffed into the hallway with the rest of us when we were getting our food. At least, I don't think she was."

  “Was she at the table when you got there?" Mel asked.

  “Yes, and she had a plate full of food. The first time."

  “The first time? What?"

  “The first time I sat down. But I'd forgotten a drink and—”

  Mel held up his hand. "Hold it. Step by step. Where had she gotten the plate if she hadn't filled it herself?"

  “I don't know. It was already there when Shelley and I sat down. What about you, Missy?”

  Missy had her eyes closed hard. "I'm trying to picture it. I just can't recall. I seem to think I saw someone set it in front of her, but I can't see who. And I'm not sure but what I'm making that up. I don't mean to invent details, it's just that it's my job to do that, and I can't always turn it off."

  “I appreciate your honesty," Mel said, looking as if he'd like to shake her teeth loose. "Can you tell me the order that people came to the table?"

  “I have no idea," Missy said. "People came, then went and came back again. When I extricated myself from the crowd in the hall—let me see—I think Grady was there already. Yes, he was, because he accidentally bashed a chair leg into me while I was sitting down. And somebody else. I think Ruth Rogers. Or maybe her sister. I wasn't really paying any attention. I was puzzling over some stuff I didn't remember putting on my plate."

  “With coconut?" Jane asked. "Somebody gave me a lump of that, too. Maybe—maybe the tea was poisoned and there was an antidote in the coconut stuff, and that's why someone made sure we all had some. But then, that can't be, because I didn't eat mine, so I should be dead." She glanced at Mel and realized she was making an ass of herself.

  He cleared his throat. "Now that you've reasoned that out, could we continue? You said you left the table—"

  “Yes, Mrs. Pryce got snooty about not having a drink, and that made me realize I didn't either. So we all went back—I mean Shelley and I did—"

  “And you got Mrs. Pryce's tea?"

  “No, I did not," Jane exclaimed. "She went ahead of us and had already gone when Shelley and I got to the kitchen. I think she went around the other way, because when we got back, she stepped on Grady's contact lens. She was coming in the dining room from the other doorway."

  “Did she have a cup of tea then?" Mel persisted.

  Jane grabbed Willard's collar and dragged him away from Mel, on whose trouser leg he was slobbering. "Sorry about that. I don't know if she had her tea. She probably did. That's what she went to the kitchen for, but I was looking down at Grady and half the others crawling around on the floor. In fact, that would have been a great time to put something on her food. Everybody was looking at Grady. Surely you've questioned everybody else about this."

  “Endlessly," Mel said with disgust. "And it sounds like a fire drill in a lunatic asylum. Half this crowd doesn't know where they were, much less where anybody else was at any given moment. Look, I'd like for each of you to write down for me exactly what you did, in what order, and what you can recall of where other people were. In the meantime, I want to talk to you about possible motives.”

  All three women smiled.

  “What? What's funny about motives?”

  Shelley broke the news to him. "You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who had more enemies internationally. There are probably clubs all over the world that meet just to discuss what they'd like to do to her.”

  Mel slumped in his chair, his gaze shifting slowly from Shelley to Jane. "Someday," he said with great deliberation, "someday when we have lots of time, I'm going to tell you what I think of the people you hang around with, Jane.”

  9

  “I'm sorry we scared him off before we could talk about motives," Shelley said as the red MG in the driveway roared to life.

  “And I'm sorry he left without rescheduling our date," Jane muttered into her iced tea.

  “Oh, Jane. I'm sorry," Shelley said. "But you are getting a one-track mind."

  “Shelley, it's a track my mind's been on for some time. I'm just hoping my body gets a chance to catch up. I've be
en a widow for some time, you know. I don't mean to be indelicate, but I didn't bury my hormones with Steve, you know."

  “You weren't planning to sleep with him at the ice cream store, were you?" Shelley asked bluntly.

  “I was hoping to eventually get the opportunity to be asked," Jane said sourly. "The ice cream store seemed a good enough place to get on that path.”

  Missy gave Jane a sympathetic look.

  “Still, it is his job to sort this out. It apparently is murder," Shelley went on.

  “What I don't understand," Missy said, "is why anybody had to murder her. After all, she was well into her eighties, I would guess. If you really hated her all that much, why not just wait with delicious anticipation for her to die? She was bound to before long. It seems an unnecessary risk to take."

  “Obviously someone had to stop her from something she could still do or say about somebody," Jane said, giving up on the prospect of a juicy discussion of herself and Mel VanDyne. She didn't really want to talk about it anyway—except maybe with him.

  “It seems to me that she'd already leveled practically everybody in class." Shelley poured herself some more tea, then she walked over to the fence between Jane's yard and hers and snapped a sprig of mint to pop in her glass.

  “Yes, you and Jane are about the only ones she didn't zap," Missy said.

  “Which makes us suspects, too. Because she hadn't gotten around to us yet," Shelley said cheerfully.

  “Shelley! Are you nuts! I'm the one who made the damned quiche, which is bad enough!" Jane exclaimed. "I think, if anything, somebody was afraid she was going to elaborate on something she'd already started on." She got another ice cube out of her glass and tossed it out into the grass for Willard, hoping he and his gnats would stay out there. He thought it was a game of fetch and brought the ice cube back.