“Missy told me the two of you are planning to write a joint autobiography," Jane said when she finally reached the point that she could stop gobbling and talk. She felt as if she could just tuck in her arms and legs and roll home. "Why didn't you turn it in to the class?"
“Each of us has written a large portion of our own, but the problem is in how to join the two," Ruth said. "That's why we were so anxious to take Missy's class. Alternating chapters seems obvious, but I think would be confusing unless one of them is cast in the third person. And of course, there's very little logical overlap. We didn't find each other until so recently."
“Yet you seem like you've been together forever," Cecily said, daintily sucking a little syrup off her fingertip. "How did you get separated, if you don't mind my asking?"
“No, not at all. It was a long time ago. Our parents both died during the war—World War Two, which seems a thousand years ago now. I was only six, and Naomi was a baby," Ruth explained, giving her sister a quick smile. Naomi returned the smile, but shakily. Jane was uneasy, but certainly Ruth wouldn't be telling this story unless she and Naomi had come to terms with it.
“Things were so confused," Ruth went on. "We had only one relative—an uncle who'd died in Germany. We were shipped off from the South Pacific to his widow in Detroit, a young show girl who was appalled to have us dumped on her. She just gave us away like you would puppies. We each drifted from family to family. I was very fortunate to end up with a childless couple—a professor and his wife. Naomi wasn't so lucky. Naomi, darling, don't you think you might go up and lie down a bit?" she broke off.
Naomi had grown even paler, and her fingers were like claws on the arms of the chair.
“Excuse me," Naomi said. "I think I will. But I'll see you in class tonight. Maybe we can meet againbefore you have to leave," she said to Cecily. Her voice was thin and weak.
When she'd gone, Cecily said, "I'm sorry if we upset her by asking."
“Oh, no. It's not that at all. It's just that she has to have regular blood transfusions, and she's a little overdue. The doctors have recently adjusted her medication, too, and she's been awfully tired the last couple days."
“It's a shame Mrs. Pryce was so rude to her about her illness," Jane said.
“Terrible. I'm afraid I overreacted. It's amazing how many times something like that has happened, however. Most people are more subtle about it, but it's a health-conscious world, and people are terrified to be around someone seriously ill. Naomi's more philosophical about it than I am. She jumped all over me for making a scene." But for all her calm appraisal, she looked worried and glanced once or twice over her shoulder as she spoke, obviously concerned with whether her sister had gotten up the stairs safely.
“We're going to get out of your way," Cecily said, standing suddenly and moving toward the door at a pace that was courteous and yet brooked no argument.
“Could I ask you a favor, Jane?" Ruth said. "Are you going out anywhere this afternoon?"
“Yes, I have to take Katie a sandwich for her dinner."
“That's wonderful. Would you drop this sign-up sheet at Bob Neufield's on the way? He lives right across from the pool. I was supposed to take it this morning, but I was concerned about Naomi and just forgot. Naomi had a little dizzy spell that shook me up. This list is for the library sale, and I've held it up too long.”
Jane leaped at the chance. She wanted to talk to Bob Neufield, just to get to know him a little better. It was an impulse she was sure Mel VanDyne would disapprove of, but the police were making so little headway, and it was possible she could learn something that could unravel the mystery of Mrs. Pryce's death.
“Aren't they interesting women?" Cecily said as they headed for home. "So fond of each other and so proud of each other's interests.”
Jane smiled and glanced sideways at her. "Wishing you had daughters like that? Maybe if you'd kept us apart for a few decades ... Still, I'll call Marty next week. Promise. And I won't even mention her cretin of a husband."
“Somehow, I think you're missing the point.”
They got in the house, and Cecily yawned and said, "That nap idea sounds good. Do you mind . . .?"
“Not in the least." As soon as her mother was out of earshot, Jane dialed the phone. "Shelley, want to do a little snooping? I've got a legitimate excuse to go by Bob Neufield's. Just give me time to pack a sandwich."
“You're taking Bob Neufield a sandwich?"
“No, the sandwich is for Katie. Seven minutes tops."
12
Shelley was waiting in her minivan in her driveway when Jane dashed out with Katie's hastily assembled sack dinner. "Mother and I just had tea with Ruth and Naomi," she said, snapping the seat belt and testing that it .was secure. With Shelley at the wheel, it wasn't an idle activity. She'd have felt better with a crash helmet as well.
“Learn anything helpful?" Shelley asked, backing out at the speed of sound. Shelley was a very polite, ladylike person, but all her aggressions came out when she was driving.
“Not much," Jane admitted, her foot pressed so hard to an imaginary brake pedal that her muscles cramped. She always told herself she'd be better off if she just closed her eyes and imagined she was on the Concorde, but she couldn't do it. "Mostly negative as far as the murder goes. I mentioned to Ruth how nasty it was of Mrs. Pryce to act like Naomi was contagious, and Ruth said lots of people have done the same thing, mostly in slightly nicer ways."
“You're kidding!"
“Watch the road, Shelley!"
“I've never had an accident," Shelley said with haughty dignity. "So much for Naomi killing her because she was hurt and insulted."
“It never was a good motive," Jane said.
“I know. If we went around killing people who insulted us, there'd be nobody left at the phone company or the IRS. What about Ruth? Was she mad enough to have done something on Naomi's behalf?"
“Maybe at the moment, but she said Naomi read her the riot act afterwards. Ruth even admitted she overreacted. I can't see a sudden rage lasting until the next day. Especially when the victim of the insult wasn't that upset. Well, upset, but resigned anyway."
“I don't suppose the subject of poisons came up?”
Jane could have sworn Shelley took the last turn on two of the van's four wheels. "Hardly. That would have been like saying, thanks for the lovely tea, and by the way, have you murdered anyone lately?"
“Nonsense. It was a logical thing to mention."
“I guess so, but I didn't get a chance. Although, in a way, it did come up. Ruth pressed some articles on me about organic gardening. She's real high on it. That probably means she doesn't have any garden poisons around. Anyway, there was lots of chitchat, then Naomi started feeling bad, so we got out."
“Organic gardening," Shelley mused, narrowly missing a parked car.
“It was mainly about compost and using Ivory Liquid to kill aphids," Jane explained. "I don't think you could kill anyone with compost—unless you buried them in it.”
Shelley screeched to a stop in front of the pool. "What else did you talk about?"
“Honk for Katie," Jane said, then proceeded to repeat as much of the conversation as she could remember while they waited for Katie to notice them.
“I don't see anything dark and mysterious in any of that," Shelley mused. She made it sound as if it were Jane's fault.
Katie came bouncing over to the car. "Hi, Mrs. Nowack. Thanks, Mom. It's not peanut butter again, is it?"
“No, it's cream cheese with pineapple," Jane said placidly. Katie looked stricken. "Just kidding. It's roast beef and pickles."
“Good. See ya.”
When they were off again, Shelley said, "Didn't Ruth used to be a nurse? Maybe she could get poisons from the hospital."
“Hold it. That's the house. No, she wasn't a nurse. She was a nursery school teacher. I doubt that she had contact with anything more dangerous than peroxide for cuts there."
“Jane, you're not coop
erating. We've got to figure out who did this. Anybody could be the next victim."
“I want to know just as much as you do. I'm just pointing out that you can't pin it on Ruth because she was a nurse when she wasn't one. Boy, is that ever a bachelor's house," she added, gazing out at Bob Neufield's plain, boxy home.
The house was sparkling white and the lawn excruciatingly tidy, but the whole had a naked, unfinished look. There were no shutters to frame the windows and give a contrast of color, no foundation plantings, no flowers, not even a rail around the cement slab porch. The windows on the front didn't even have curtains, only utilitarian roller shades.
“Now, that's a man who needs a dozen plastic flamingos to dress the place up," Jane said with a giggle, then immediately sobered when she remembered the purpose of their visit. "Now, Shelley, don't ask anything too blunt."
“What do you mean? I'm the soul of tact."
“I just mean we want to figure this out, but we don't want to put ourselves in danger. No 'what were you doing the night of blah blah' stuff that makes us sound like detectives.”
They left the car on the street under a shade tree and went to the door. There wasn't a doorbell, so they knocked.
Bob Neufield opened the door and stared at them for a moment, obviously trying to place them.
“Mr. Neufield, I'm Jane Jeffry and this is Shelley Nowack. We're in Missy's class with you."
“Oh, yes. Sorry." He smiled, but it was the expression of a man who'd been told it was courteous to smile and didn't quite know why he should.
Jane waited a few seconds for him to step aside and invite them in, but he didn't. "Ruth Rogers asked me to drop off a sign-up sheet for some library thing." She handed it to him.
He took it, glanced at the heading, and said, "Thanks.”
There was another awkward pause. Shelley said, "If you're not busy, I wonder if we could come in for a moment.”
Count on Shelley, Jane thought.
Neufield looked perplexed, but said, "Sure. Come in.”
The living room was like the front of the house: painfully neat, but with nothing to suggest real human habitation. The walls were bare of pictures. The furniture was of nice quality, but it looked as if it were set up for a catalog photograph. Everything was shades of tasteful, boring beige. There was a bookshelf, but it contained only books. Very few pictures or ornaments or memorabilia. Only a football trophy and one intriguing picture of a beautiful youngwoman. "I see you're interested in military history," Jane said, scanning a few of the book titles.
“Yes, it's been a lifelong hobby of mine. I've even had a few articles published in some of the history magazines," he said, apparently mistaking Jane's comment for passionate interest. "I have quite a collection of artifacts, too. Would you like to see them?"
“We'd love to," Jane said, looking smugly at Shelley as if to say, 'See? I can get people to talk.' He led them down a hallway off the living room, past a bedroom, bathroom, and into the back of the house. This had probably been two good-sized rooms originally. The dividing wall had been knocked out, making the entire width of the house into a single huge area. Unlike the rest of the house, this space was full of objects. Guns, sabers, and shields covered the walls. Glass-topped tables were full of knives. Cabinets were open to display helmets, cannonballs, field surgical kits, and bits of military harnesses. In a quick visual sweep, Jane spotted several grenades, a number of weapons that looked as if they belonged to modern terrorists, and what appeared to be a machine gun, sitting on top of a desk and pointed out the back window. Studying the window, she noticed a thin black line in the glass. An alarm system.
She and Shelley gazed about in stupefaction before Jane managed to croak, "This is a stunning collection, Mr. Neufield."
“Thank you. I collect primarily World War One, but I've gotten interested lately in Civil War, and a number of very good pieces have come on the market with the recession."
“What's this?" Shelley asked of an object on the table next to the door.
“A canister of mustard gas."
“Oh!" she said, jerking her hand back and moving away.
“Probably inert by now, but I've never wanted to find out," he said, with a short bark of a laugh. "You ladies are welcome to look around as much as you like, but if we're going to stay in here, I need to keep the door closed. Humidity control, you see." He was looking at an elaborate set of gauges on the wall next to the door as he spoke.
“Oh, we wouldn't want to mess things up," Jane said hastily. The room and its keeper made her uneasy, and she wasn't about to be locked up in it. Bob looked so disappointed that they stayed a little longer, trying to pretend an interest other than terror. Finally Jane guessed they'd stayed long enough to keep from hurting his feelings. "Well, this is truly a remarkable collection," she said, moving toward the doorway.
They went back to the living room, and Bob Neufield said, "Would you like some coffee?" Again, it was as if he'd been told this was part of the script of a play he didn't quite understand.
“We wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Pryce's death. It was almost surely murder, you know," Jane said.
Shelley shot her a surprised look, as if to say, "Where were you on the night of blah blah.”
He nodded. "So I was led to believe. What do you want to talk about it for?"
“To see if we can't figure it out," Shelley said, casting caution entirely to the winds.
“Why would you do that?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The two women looked at each other in confusion."Don't you want the killer caught, Mr. Neufield?" Jane asked.
“Of course I do, but it's the job of the police to figure it out, and the courts to prosecute. I'd think either institution would regard private interference as dangerous and unnecessary. And I think they'd be right.”
Jane thought Mel might be the author of that part of the script. "Did you tell them everything you knew, then?"
“Naturally. It was my duty. But I knew very little." "Then you didn't see or hear anything suspicious?" Shelley put in.
“Suspicious? How? Aside from the fact that the woman died?" At this he smiled a real smile.
He obviously thought they were acting like idiots, and for a moment Jane wondered if he might be right. "You realize that one of the people at the dinner surely killed her and almost killed the maid?" she asked.
Bob Neufield reached for a pack of cigarettes, offered it to them, and lit one. "That's probably true," he said through a puff of smoke.
He was being so sensible and remote that Jane could hardly stand it. This was like talking to a robot—or a military man. "Doesn't that bother you?"
“Not unduly. I don't know why it should. I didn't know the woman. I wasn't the perpetrator, nor was I the victim. I was merely a bystander, and so, I presume, were you ladies. Murder is an intolerable act, and must be punished, but that's not my job. I'm sure the police have their forces well in hand. I've always operated on the principle that the best way to help a man do a hard job is to stay out of the way unless asked to assist. You ladies might consider that.”
Jane asked, "Did you tell the police what she said about you?”
She regretted the impulse the moment the words were out of her mouth. His jaw was set and he paled. His tone was that of furious anger barely held in check. "Yes, I did. It would be irresponsible to thwart the authorities by withholding any information, however little pertinence it has to the case." He stood up and walked to the door. "Ladies, I sorry, but I have a great deal of work to do and can't ask you to stay longer.”
They slunk out.
Once in the car, Shelley said, "The man's long suit isn't the social graces."
“It's not exactly ours, either," Jane said. "If he's innocent, we've insulted him uselessly; and if he's guilty, we've laid our heads on the block. Jeez, Shelley, we really botched that up. You know, he could start another world war with that stuff in his back room."
“There's something that went through my mind...."
Shelley said closing her eyes and motioning for Jane to keep quiet while she tried to recapture it. "Yes! I remember. Did you see that old canvas bag thing on the table to your left?"
“I don't know. What was it?"
“It had scissors and ration packets and a little vial. A kit. It made me think of something I saw in my grandfather's attic when I helped my mother sort it out. I showed the canvas kit to Paul, and he said the soldiers in World War One carried some kind of antidote to the poison gas. And sure enough, there was a vial with a needle in it in my grandfather's kit. Paul said it was dangerous to keep around. It was something they injected in themselves to counteract the effects of the poison gas—"
“And you think it could be a poison?"
“Isn't it possible?" Shelley asked, starting the car.
“I'm wondering, too, if the stories you hear about spies having a cyanide pill on them might be true. Would that sort of thing turn up in a military collection?"
“I don't know. I think cyanide works instantly. At least, it always does in books. But it would at least be worth asking VanDyne about. The police probably had no reason to look around Neufield's house. They weren't pretending to be guests, like we were. God, we behaved badly, Jane. Stupidly."
“Did you see that picture on the bookshelf?" Jane asked. "It was about the only photograph in the house. A pretty young woman."
“So?"
“So, I don't know. I just wondered if it was relevant.”
Even Shelley's driving was subdued, a first in Jane's memory. As Jane got out, Shelley said, "Here. You forgot your book.”
Jane looked at the copy of Mrs. Pryce's self-published diary that Shelley was handing her. "It's not mine."
“It must be. It's not mine. My copy is on the guest room desk. I put it there as I was leaving."
“I must have picked this one up with Katie's lunch sack without realizing it," Jane said. "See you at class tonight."
“Do you think we ought to go?" Shelley asked. "What if he was the murderer and we just made him mad?"
“Shelley, it's not as if he doesn't know where to find us anytime he wants. We'll just turn down any homemade cookies he might bring and pass around.”
A Quiche Before Dying jj-3 Page 9
