Jane looked at her mother. "You are supposed to care deeply about my welfare. I delivered a little lecture on the subject last night. And yet, you're suggesting that I ride in a car with Atilla the Hun at the wheel."
“But she's never had an accident," Cecily said with a laugh.
"We were worried about you," Jane said to Desiree when she came to the door.
Desiree was holding a tissue to her red nose. Her
eyes were red, too. "Sorry to miss it. Come in, girls."
Though it was summer, Desiree apparently had the
furnace turned on. It was miserably hot in the house and smelled strange. "I'm cooking this cold," Desiree said before blowing her nose. "And I'm filling the air with medicinal herbs. In fact, I have a contractor coming over later to give me a bid on putting a greenhouse off the kitchen. Herbs are so important to our lives and so neglected. Herbs are the basis of all medicine, you know, and they can influence our mental, not to mention our psychic, state—”
Jane and Shelley exchanged "she's at it again" looks.
“I'm glad you girls came by. I wanted to talk to you about that field behind your houses—"
“It was supposed to have houses on it, but the builder went bankrupt. It's been tied up in court for years," Shelley said.
“And my cats will be crushed if anything ever is built there. That's their own private jungle," Jane added, feeling protective of the neglected field.
“But don't you see? It could be planted in wildflowers. It would be a lovely asset to the neighborhood, and people could have free access to the marvelous healing properties of the plants that would grow there."
“Not if it meant cutting through my yard, they couldn't," Shelley said.
Desiree wasn't the least put out at Shelley's practical turn of mind. She smiled sweetly. "But property is an illusion, my dear. We can't any of us own the earth. Not until we're buried and become at one with it."
“As long as I pay the taxes and the lawn service bills on it, I'm at one with it," Shelley said firmly.
Desiree was about to further her argument, but Jane was afraid this philosophical discussion couldget out of hand. "Desiree, I've been reading Mrs. Pryce's book—"
“You have, my dear? Why ever would you do a thing like that? It's a terribly dangerous book." "Dangerous? In what way?"
“It has a terrible black aura. But then, so did the woman herself.”
Jane said, "I thought you said her aura was—" "Jane!" Shelley cut her off.
“Yes, okay. I was saying, I noticed that Mrs. Pryce lived in Paris for a while in the early sixties. I thought I remembered you saying you did, too. Did you ever meet her there?”
Desiree looked taken aback. "Oh, I don't think so. I don't think she's the sort a person would forget, much as one would like to."
“But in my experience the American community in foreign countries is usually pretty clubby," Jane said. "Surely you would have run across her or heard of her.”
Desiree laughed. "My dear, that's just what's wrong with Americans. They go off to fantastic places, then link arms and never see what's around them. In my travels, I always made a point of avoiding my countrymen.”
Jane glanced at Shelley, who was shaking her head in a "give it up" motion.
“Speaking of Mrs. Pryce's book," Jane persevered, "I seem to have an extra copy. I must have picked somebody else's up. Is it yours, do you think?"
“Oh, I have no idea, and frankly, I don't care where mine is." She paused, thinking. "However ... if you've got an extra, I think I might use it as a weed killer in my yard." She glanced at the two of them and said, "Oh, I can see you scoffing, but psy‑ chic influence is very real, even if hard to capture in scientific terms. I once had a lovely oak tree in my yard that died, and I know it was because of the ugly patio furniture my sister-in-law gave me to set under it.”
Shelley suddenly grabbed a tissue from the box on the coffee table and pretended to blow her nose. Jane could see her friend's shoulders shaking with laughter and was nearly infected herself. "Desiree, we won't keep you from your health routine," she said, fighting to keep control.
“Oh, do stay. I have some lovely snapdragon tea I just infused myself and some cornflower cakes." Shelley snorted.
“No, really. I've got to run home and take Katie to work. We just wanted to see how you were. Thanks ..." She hesitated, drawing a deep breath and pinching her own leg to cause some distracting pain. "Thanks, anyway. Shelley, come on! Now!”
They managed to get out of sight of the house before Shelley pulled over to the curb and put her head on the steering wheel, laughing helplessly. "Assassin lawn furniture!" she gasped. "I wonder if Stormin' Norman knows about it? He could have had K Mart ship a load to the Gulf and saved calling up all those reserves.”
1 5
“Shelley, will you please get yourself together?" Jane said ten minutes later as they pulled into Shelley's driveway. They were both exhausted from laughter.
“All right. I'm over it," Shelley said, finishing this statement with a giggle.
“Now, this is serious. Listen to me, Shelley. The poison could have come from those plants she's got. And she denied having known Mrs. Pryce in Paris."
“Maybe because she didn't know her. It's possible, Jane," Shelley said, wiping her eyes. "As for the plants, I don't see how she could kill anybody with them, except by accident."
“Maybe it was."
“Come on, Jane. She just cnopped up something, happened to carry a bottle of it around with her, and accidentally poured it on Mrs. Pryce's quiche at the exact moment nobody was looking? Not too likely.”
Jane frowned. "You've got a point. Still, she can't really be as weird as she acts. Nobody could get through life that way. She might be really cunning and bright."
“Oh, I think she's smart. Some of the smartest people I know are the weirdest," Shelley said.
Jane arched an eyebrow "You aren't referring to me, are you? Listen, Shelley, I know what I'm talk‑ 1.11 ing about on this Paris thing. I grew up all over the world, and believe me, even in a big city like Paris, the Americans who actually live there all know about each other, even if they've never met."
“But you're talking about normal people, Jane. Desiree is the type who would have lived in a commune, trying to teach the French to speak Esperanto or raise freshwater oysters or whatever her current interest happened to be. I can't see the diplomatic community throwing their arms wide and pressing her to their collective bosoms, can you?"
“Lord, no! Maybe you're right. But—although I hesitate to mention the subject—you notice she didn't produce proof that the extra copy of Pryce's book wasn't hers?”
Shelley put her hands to her head in exasperation. "So what? Jane, you're getting obsessed with this book thing."
“I don't know. I just think this book means something."
“It means you have sticky fingers and a dismal memory." Shelley leaned on the horn, and at Jane's questioning look, she explained, "Denise has an orthodontist's appointment in ten minutes.”
Jane got out of the car just as Denise came flying out of the Nowacks' house and flung herself into the back of the minivan, saying, "Quick, Mom. Somebody might see me.”
Her own house was quiet when Jane went inside. She looked in the garage. The car was gone, which probably meant that both her mother and daughter were away. She yelled up the steps to be sure. The only answer was blessed quiet except for the furtive jingle of Willard's tags as he came creeping out from his hiding place behind the sofa.
“Let's go outside, Lionheart," she said. She picked up the folder with her story about Priscilla and her copy of Mrs. Pryce's book and, grabbing a canned cold drink from the refrigerator, went out to the patio.
Just as she stepped outside, Meow came hurtling up over the back fence with a bird in his mouth. Jane quickly set down her things and took out after him, but he saw her coming and took the fence going the other way in a single bound without losing a feather. The bird
was still in his mouth. Jane gave up. She felt honor-bound to save as many creatures as she could from the bloodthirsty cat, but drew the line at climbing fences and fighting her way through the field behind her house in order to do it. As her son Mike reminded her so often, nature was nature. But she remembered when he was a very little boy and got upset about the cats bringing in trophies. Now he had a squirrel tail collection on his bulletin board. The cats ate the squirrels they caught, but always left the tails for Mike.
She missed her son. Both her sons. She'd enjoyed the week of relative peace, but it was getting eerie. Life wasn't real without a jockstrap slung over the stair rail and hamster food ground into the carpet someplace. As much as she enjoyed seeing her children grow up, the thought of this house without them was horrifying. But she didn't need to worry about it now, she told herself. The boys were both due home tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
After tomorrow, she'd be back in the full mother routine. Driving everybody to friends' houses and lessons, arguing with Mike about how much of the time he could have the car, doing a million loads of laundry a day, and cooking madly, trying to keep their giant appetites satisfied. She'd lose most of her free time and probably any chance she had to figure out who'd killed Mrs. Pryce. And yet, she'd go on living in the neighborhood with the killer. She and her children. Without being able to guess what triggered the murder, they'd never be safe. The more she thought about it, the more fearful and angry she became.
She looked over her garden and was appalled at how many new weeds had grown in the few days she'd neglected the patch. She sat down, halfheartedly picking at some crabgrass that was encroaching on the tomatoes. She suddenly had the thought that people were like gardens: some of them productive or beautiful or both, others noxious and greedy. Mrs. Pryce was one of the weeds in life. And yet, the other plants weren't allowed to destroy the weeds. Only the Gardener could do that. She got up, depressed at the thought. She'd think about Priscilla instead. Or maybe Mel VanDyne.
She picked up her notebook and drink from the ground where she'd set them to chase Meow and started piling things on the patio table. That was when she noticed the little birdcage. It must have been part of Katie's shopping binge. She picked it up, smiling. It was a cute little ornamental cage made of fine bamboo, not large enough for a real bird, but a sweet little object to place on a shelf or fill with candies. Jane set it out of the way and took her legal pad out of the folder.
The thing she most wanted to do was put her feet up and think back over those few delightful minutes last night in the parking lot of the mall. Six, maybe seven, really expert kisses, before Mel had remembered that he was supposed to be working. Pity, that.
But it had been wonderful to be in a man's arms again, even for such a short time. And it was great to be old enough to not care just where he'd learned to kiss so well. Age did have a few advantages.
She shook herself and said, "Get busy, Jane." She reread the last of what she'd written and had added another page of quickly scrawled work before she heard the car in the drive a few minutes later. It was probably Cecily and Katie returning. She put away her work and went back inside.
“Mom, I'm going to be late!" Katie shouted, flying through the kitchen.
Cecily was behind her, as placid and graceful as ever. "She didn't realize your car clock is slow, and I didn't know she needed to be at work at noon."
“It's okay. It's only three minutes away, and she's got four minutes. I'll take her. I've got to run to the store anyway," Jane said, taking the car keys and grabbing her purse. "That little cage is cute. I forgot to bring it in.”
Cecily looked at her. "What cage?"
“The miniature birdcage. The little bamboo thing. Didn't you and Katie buy it?"
“Not that I know of." Cecily stood back as Katie bounced back past. She was now in her swimming suit and was hopping and pulling on her shorts over it as she went.
On the way to the pool Jane said, "Is that little birdcage on the patio table yours?"
“I don't have a bird. What would I want with a birdcage? Mom, can't you go faster? I'll be late.”
Jane dropped her daughter, who walked across the parking lot as languidly as though she had hours to spare. Jane knew that was because Katie didn't want to jiggle. Jiggling wasn't cool in her crowd yet. Give them a few years.
Jane quickly consulted the list in her purse. She needed to get wine. She never drank it herself, but her mother was used to a glass with dinner, and she'd neglected this hostess duty so far. She also wanted to talk to Grady. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find out, but something interesting might slip.
Sadly, her visit to the liquor store put her in contact with one of the creeps who'd been asking her out ever since Steve died. She tried to avoid being noticed, but he spotted her and came oiling over where she was lurking behind the wine coolers. "Hey, Jane! Nice to see you. Lookin' good, honey. Lookin' good. Been gettin' any?" he said.
It was one of those moments Jane sincerely wished she were Katharine Hepburn. Kate would have known how to destroy this jerk with a look and a word or two. "Excuse me, Walt. I'm really in a frantic hurry.”
She tried to edge past him, but he leaned against a precarious display of wine bottles and looked her up and down. "Come on, honey. Don't run away. I won't eat you—not unless you ask real nice. Ha, ha, ha.”
Jane felt the red come up her neck. "If you say another word, I'm going to scream for the police." "Aww, come on, don't be like that.”
Jane drew a deep breath.
“Okay, okay, honey. Just joking," he said, stepping aside. By incredible good fortune, his foot dislodged one of the bottom bottles of the display, and Jane turned away to the sound of crashing and splashing.
As a clerk came running down the aisle, Jane said coolly, "I think that man is drunk.”
She decided the wine could wait, especially since she didn't know where another liquor store was and certainly wasn't ever going back in this one. She backed out quickly and headed for Grady's office. It was twelve-fifteen. Maybe she could get him to go to lunch with her. But when she got to his office, she was told he always went home for lunch on Thursdays. "You just missed him, ma'am," the secretary said.
“I'll catch him there," Jane said. This suited her fine. More private. Possibly more revealing.
Grady's house was a small ranch style with a lush lawn and fresh paint. It was shaded by big elm trees that had somehow survived the blight, and all around the house were riots of flowers that grew in the shade. It was a very friendly, comfortable-looking house, like Grady himself. She rang the bell, mentally running over her excuse for calling while she waited.
The door opened a crack, and Grady's round, pink face appeared. "Ah, Jane ..."
“Your office told me you were at home for lunch." "Ah—yes. Well—would you like to come in?”
It wasn't a warm welcome, but she couldn't be choosy. "Thanks, Grady.”
As he opened the door, she realized he was in a bathrobe. His legs and feet were bare. In the middle of the day? He noticed her look and said, "Spill. I spilled some paint on myself. Ran home to change clothes. Ah—sit down, won't you?”
He was a nervous wreck.
So much the better.
Jane sat down on the sofa by a picture window that had curtains pulled across it. "Grady, I just was wondering what you make of this whole thing with Mrs.
Pryce. As mayor, I'm sure you're as concerned as I am that it be solved quickly and with as little publicity as possible."
“Ah—yes, of course." He was fumbling with a drawer in the end table. "Cigarette?" he said.
Jane wasn't sure whether it was an offer or a desperate plea. "Thanks, Grady, I have my own. Would you like one?”
She reached for her purse.
And picked up the wrong one.
Lying next to her purse on the sofa was a very distinctive moss green leather handbag.
Jane looked up and felt herself blushing for the second time in an hour.
Grady was undressed in the middle of the day, and Missy's purse was on his sofa Jane stood up so suddenly that he stepped backward in alarm. "I left my cigarettes at home. I've got to go, Grady. Good-bye. No, don't see me out.”
1 6
“In the middle of the day!" Jane exclaimed for the fifth time in as many minutes.
Shelley patted her shoulder and laughed. "Sit down. You'll get over it.”
Jane threw herself into one of Shelley's kitchen chairs and fished around in her purse for the cigarette that provoked the revelation. "Missy and Grady. I can't believe it," she said, puffing furiously once she'd gotten the stale, battered object lighted. She'd been telling herself she was on the very brink of quitting for almost a year.
“Why not?" Shelley asked, sitting down across from her.
“Well, for one thing, she's a good six inches taller than he is.”
Shelley laughed. "Jane, it doesn't matter when you're horizontal. Height is a purely vertical consideration."
“You know what I mean. It's the middle of the day that really gets me. They're grown-ups, not horny kids.”
Shelley reached over and patted her hand. "Jane, you really have been widowed too long. You're either obsessed with sex or appalled by it."
“I'm not appalled. Only hugely surprised. Grady and Missy! I had no idea!”
Do
“Jane, people sometimes conduct perfectly happy affairs for years without anybody else knowing. Why do you think they should have let you in on it?"
“Years. My God! The secretary said he always goes home for lunch on Thursdays. Do you suppose . ..?" She grinned. "Oh, I hope so. But in the daylight?"
“Didn't you ever make love in the daytime?"
“Oh, sure. But that was Steve," Jane said dismissively. "The stretch marks and wrinkles were his fault, so they didn't bother me. But an affair—an affair is different. I thought you had to have a gorgeous young body for an affair."
“There speaks the voice of inexperience," Shelley said. "Jane, get your mind out of Grady's bedroom and think about what this might mean. Do you think maybe Missy was upset on Grady's behalf about Mrs. Pryce's accusations? You told me Ruth was madder about the insult to her sister than Naomi herself was. What if it was like that with Missy and Grady?"
A Quiche Before Dying jj-3 Page 11
