A Quiche Before Dying jj-3

by Jill Churchill

  “Missy as a murderer? Impossible."

  “But it's no more impossible to imagine than anybody else in the class."

  “True. Except for Bob Neufield. He hates us, and probably with good cause. We should never have gone over there."

  “Just like you shouldn't have gone to Grady's?" Shelley asked.

  “Yes. It didn't stop me, did it? I've got to go home and stay out of trouble," she said, rising.

  When she got in the house, the first thing she heard was the tapping of her typewriter. Cecily called from the living room, "I'll give this up if you want to use it."

  “No. What are you doing?"

  “I just remembered something that happened once that I wanted to jot down for my book. In spite of everything, I'm glad we took this class.”

  Jane almost told her mother that she was thinking about turning Priscilla's story into a book, but the idea was still too outrageous and fragile to share with anybody but Missy. Not that her mother would denigrate the idea, but there might be a fleeting moment of incredulity in her face, and Jane couldn't face it. "I'm going to work on my short story upstairs then," she said. "Remind me to tell you later what happened to the wine I was going to buy you for dinner.”

  An hour and several pages later, Jane came down to the kitchen to find a snack. The doorbell rang while she was trawling in the refrigerator. She opened the door. "Hi, Jane," Missy said. "Are we still speaking?"

  “Oh, Missy, of course we are. Let's sit outside.”

  Missy threw the green purse down on the patio table and sank into a chair with a sigh. "I'm sorry I caused you to be embarrassed."

  “Oh, no, Missy. It was my fault, not yours. I had no business at Grady's." Jane picked up the little bamboo birdcage and set it inside the back door, partly because she couldn't quite meet Missy's eyes yet.

  “Poor Grady," Missy said with a smile. "He's such a dear conservative prude. You scared the daylights out of him, you know. I told him not to go to the door, but he's so superresponsible. It drives him nearly crazy when I let a phone ring without answering it.”

  Jane sat down across from her. "Missy—why Grady, if you don't mind my asking?”

  Missy smiled. "Because he's a delightful pink teddy bear of a man. More important, I'm a big, homely woman, and he adores me."

  “Of course he does!" Jane said sincerely. "How could he not?"

  “I imagine you've told Shelley."

  “ 'Fraid so. I was so stunned. Why haven't you gotten married? Oh, I forgot. You've got a husband."

  “Not anymore. He finally found someone else and divorced me about six months ago. No, the problem is Grady's wife."

  “Grady has a wife? I didn't know that. Where is she? I've never met her."

  “You don't hang around nursing homes. They were in a car accident the first year they were married. She suffered enormous brain damage. She's been in a coma ever since."

  “I had no idea."

  “No, and I hope you won't blab it. For all his outgoing personality, Grady's a terribly private person. He can't afford to divorce her. The bulk of her bills are paid by some insurance policy that would be canceled if they weren't married. It would take virtually every penny he makes to care for her. I've told him many times we could live on my money, but he's an old-fashioned frump who won't hear of it. That's part of the reason he's so careful about our relationship. The insurance company would, needless to say, love to unload him. He's afraid if we lived together or even made our arrangement official or public, they'd claim common-law marriage, bigamy, anything to cut off the benefits."

  “They couldn't do that, could they?"

  “They've already tried a couple of other stunts almost as nasty. He's had to drag them to court twice already. So now you know."

  “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snoop—well, it's exactly what I meant to do, but I was just wondering if he had any connection to Mrs. Pryce.”

  Missy sighed. "Actually ...”

  She stopped and looked hard at Jane as if making an appraisal, then said, "His wife is her great-niece. Mrs. Pryce never made the connection; Wells is a common name, and none of the family had any more to do with Mrs. Pryce than they had to. And since the community doesn't know about his wife, he didn't bring it to her attention. And before you ask, yes, the police know. Grady told your detective everything. Well, everything except about me, that is.”

  Jane sat back for a long moment. "You'll be glad to hear that Mel didn't breathe a hint of this to me. Can I tell Shelley? She won't say anything to anyone else. She's very happy you and Grady have each other, by the way."

  “Just so long as she understands not to talk to anyone else.”

  They were quiet for a long moment, then Jane said, "It isn't an important connection, is it? Mel told me the money all goes to the grandchildren. Grady wouldn't benefit."

  “Not a red cent. Jane, Grady had nothing to do with this murder."

  “I believe you." And it was true. At least, she believed that Missy believed in his innocence. Jane herself wanted to think about it a little more before she checked Grady off her private list of suspects. She'd already drawn a light mental pencil line through his name, and nothing would make her happier than to dismiss him entirely. Unfortunately, she'd already penciled off everybody but Bob Neufield, and she had the strong feeling that, much as she'd like to cast him as a villain, he wasn't one.

  “Jane, if we've hashed this over enough, I'd like to know if you've been working more on Priscilla's story. That's what I really came over about.”

  Jane started to tell Missy about the wolf idea, but Missy stopped her. "Bit of advice, Jane: Don't talk about an idea until it's already written. You'll use up all your fire on the telling, and the writing will be boring when you get to it."

  “Oh—yes, I see. You're probably right. Well, yes, as you can see, I'm still working on it. Missy, do you really think I might end up with a published book? It seems impossible.”

  Missy chose her words with care. "I think you might end up with a publishable book. Whether it will get published is another thing. See, Jane, successful writing is made up of forty-nine percent discipline, and forty-nine percent talent, and two percent dumb luck."

  “I don't even think I've got the discipline or the talent I need, let alone the luck."

  “But those can both be nurtured and practiced and developed. The luck can't be."

  “Don't you think I might do better to write a romance?"

  “Good heaven's, no! Everybody thinks a romance is the easiest thing in the world to do, and it's one of the hardest to do well. Besides—the romance business is difficult."

  “Why?"

  “Because most of the romance editors are very young, very New Yorky. They think that anything west of the Hudson River is wilderness and that the typical reader is some hillbilly congenital idiot whohas to move her lips to read. Consequently they tend to hold the writer down to Dick-and-Jane level. I once had an editor insist I remove a reference to Charles Dickens. She said the readers wouldn't have heard of him and they'd think he was a character in the book they'd missed. I'm not sure she knew who he was.”

  Jane laughed. "It can't all be that bad."

  “No, some of the editors are very good, but you don't always get lucky enough to work with them." Missy had cheered up considerably. "There are a few other things you should know, if you're thinking of getting into this business. There are things that people will say to you that crush you the first six times or so, until you realize they're standard."

  “Like what?"

  “Like people who say, 'What name do you write under?' the implication being that they've never heard of you. I always tell them I write as Stephen King. Some of them get the joke. Some are more direct. 'Oh, you're a writer? I've never heard of you.' Or friends who will come up out of the blue and say to you, very pleasantly, 'I've never read one of your books.' I can't imagine what they expect you to say to that. And these aren't even the ghouls, Jane. These are people trying to
be nice and just not realizing how insulting and nasty they're being. But the worst, and most common, is this one: 'You're a writer? I always meant to write a book—if I just had the time.' I'm always tempted to say, 'Yes, and I've always meant to be a brain surgeon if I could just find time to try the surgery.' "

  “Missy—I don't mean to pry into your business, but can you make money writing?"

  “Yes, but you can't count on it. It's feast or fam‑ ine. The nice thing is, there's not much cost. It's not like opening a shop where you have to pay rent and purchase a huge amount of stock and pay employees and buy a delivery truck. All you really need is a typewriter and paper and your imagination, although I'd strongly recommend a word processor. You're thinking about this seriously, aren't you?"

  “Semiseriously," Jane admitted.

  She got up, gave Jane a hug, and said, "Most of the time I think writing is the best job in the world. You get to stay home, wear whatever you want, and smoke without anybody complaining. And I better get back to work.”

  Jane walked to the car with her. As Missy got in, she said, "Look at your front porch. Flowers, I bet.”

  Sure enough, there was a large cone of white paper sitting on the porch.

  Jane bid Missy good-bye and walked back to the house. She took the flowers in and tore off the paper. It was a lovely fresh arrangement, all in blues and whites in a glazed white bowl. Jane searched among the blooms for a card, but there was none. She noticed the name of the florist on the wrapping paper, but decided not to call and ask.

  It must have come from Mel, she thought. What a nice, romantic gesture.

  17

  “What a beautiful arrangement!" Cecily said, looking at the flowers that were still sitting on the kitchen counter. "Who are they from?"

  “I presume they're from Mel, but there's no card. What are all these things, anyway? I think this is a Shasta daisy, but I don't recognize any of the blue ones."

  “I don't either. Jane, is this serious? With Mel?" "Oh, Mom, I don't know. I don't think so. We don't have anything in common."

  “Sometimes that doesn't matter," Cecily said. "In fact, that very thing can be a good basis for a relationship. It means constant discovery."

  “Except Mel isn't interested in discovering my world—housework, kids, homework, school carnivals. And I can't say that I blame him. It's all necessary, but it's not fascinating. And frankly, I feel the same about his job. Necessary, but pretty boring except times like this when it has a connection with me. I can't see us ever having scintillating conversations about what kind of powder they use to pick up fingerprints."

  “Jane, dear, you're talking about jobs, not what you are inside."

  “But, Mom, I've been a housewife and mother for so long that what I do has become what I am. “

  The phone rang. "Hello? Oh, hi, Mel," Jane said. Cecily found a sudden errand to do elsewhere. "Mel, Missy told me about Grady."

  “Oh? What did she tell you?" he asked cautiously.

  “That his wife's been in a coma for ages and is a relative of Mrs. Pryce's. You hadn't mentioned that."

  “He asked me to keep it confidential, and I agreed to if it had no bearing on the case."

  “And it doesn't?"

  “So far, it appears not. His wife isn't closely enough related to inherit. There are at least seven grandchildren ahead of her. And even if they were gone, there are a couple great-grandchildren. We've also had accountants going over the city's books. Unless Grady's twice as smart as all of them put together, there isn't a penny missing. How come Missy told you this? How did she know?"

  “Oh, they're friends, I guess. It probably had to do with his autobiography for class," Jane said. If Mel could keep a confidence, so could she.

  “We have a policewoman skimming her books, too."

  “Why?"

  “To see if there's any suggestion in any of them that she's knowledgeable about poisons.”

  Jane laughed. "Mel, they're romances. People don't get poisoned in romances. And frankly—no, never mind." She'd been about to lambaste him for having a policewoman read the books, as if the books weren't something a man could bother with. Or maybe a man would have his machismo impaired by close association with romances. But she wasn't sure he was ready for another lecture or that she wanted to risk giving one.

  “You never know," he said mildly, not realizing what he'd missed.

  “Mel, thank you for the flowers. They're absolutely beautiful. I'm going to keep them here in the kitchen where I can enjoy them while I work.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Flowers? Somebody sent you flowers?"

  “It wasn't you?"

  “No, I'm afraid it wasn't."

  “Oh, how embarrassing. I'm sorry. But if it wasn't you—" She stopped, realizing it wasn't a good idea to mention that there was no one else in the world who would think to send her flowers. "There wasn't a card, and I thought—"

  “No," he said tightly. "It must have been another admirer."

  “Maybe so," she said with hysterical brightness. "So, is there anything new with the investigation?”

  He was silent for a minute. Then, "No, we're plodding along. Don't worry, though. We'll get the crucial evidence eventually. If a killing isn't a clear domestic disturbance, which most of them are, it usually takes some time to work it out step by step. You have to understand, Jane, that with all the technical advances in law enforcement—”

  Jane wasn't listening to his lecture. She was staring across the room at the flowers. If Mel didn't send them, who the hell did? She waited until he'd wound down and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Desiree Loftus is on an herb binge. Shelley and I went over there, and her house is full of plants. She's brewing up health teas and things.”

  She didn't need to explain to him why it might be important. "Okay, we'll check it out." He held his hand partially over the phone and had a muffled con‑ versation, then came back to her and said, "Sorry, I've got to go."

  “I'll talk to you later. Good-bye," Jane said. Nice. He either forgot the purpose of his call or there was no purpose except to talk to her.

  Jane stood for a moment, then called Missy's number. She got her answering machine. She hated talking to the things, but in this case, did. "Missy, this is a stupid question, but would you call and confirm that Grady didn't send me those flowers that were on my front porch? I know he didn't, but I need to be sure—" There was a click as the answering machine hung up. Missy apparently didn't like getting long messages and had it set accordingly.

  Cecily came in the kitchen door from the backyard. "Do you have some gardening gloves? Your vegetables are getting overgrown with weeds."

  “I've even got an extra pair," Jane said. "Mom, Mel didn't sent those flowers."

  “How exciting. You must have a secret admirer.”

  She and her mother spent an hour in the yard, weeding and talking. This time Jane had no great theological insights, just a nice visit with her mom. Jane told her about the visit with Desiree and also about her embarrassing intrusion into Grady's life. She knew her mother wouldn't have any cause to speak to anyone about Grady and Missy, but swore her to secrecy in any case. "Oh, I forget. Your wine." Jane recounted her horrible visit to the liquor store.

  “The dreadful man! How nice to see justice done once in a while. He didn't get hurt, did he?"

  “I don't think so. He was still bellowing about how it was all somebody else's fault when I left."

  “Jane—maybe he's your secret admirer."

  “Oh, I hope not! No, he couldn't be. A man who asks a woman if she's 'getting any' wouldn't have the grace and romance to send flowers. He'd be more likely to send a vibrator—or one of those cakes from an obscene bakery. No, I think it's probably Grady. He knew I was as embarrassed as he was. They're probably apology flowers. I put in a call to Missy to find out, but I got her machine."

  “I imagine you're right. Jane, tell me about this story you keep going back to working on.”

>   Jane sat back and brushed dirt off her gloves. "I'm almost afraid to talk about it. Missy says it could be a book."

  “How wonderful." There wasn't a scintilla of disbelief in her voice. Just genuine pleasure.

  “No, it's really not. I don't know the first thing about writing a book, and I feel like a fraud even saying it."

  “Nobody knows if they can write a book until they try it. I think you should give it your best shot. If it doesn't pan out, you'd have had a good time trying. Tell me about it. It's a novel, right?"

  “I can only tell you about the part that's written. Missy says so."

  “Then tell me that.”

  Cecily had some interesting ideas for plot twists, and she enthusiastically supported Jane's idea of using part of her inheritance from her friend to buy a computer. "You're in the Stone Age nowadays if you don't have one. You could also do your household bookkeeping on it and get some games for the children. On second thought, that part's probably counterproductive," Cecily said. When they finally went back into the house, Jane was bubbling with ideas and had, in addition, four little cucumbers that had actually grown on her side of the fence to make into a salad. "Jane, I'll make dinner. You work on your book," Cecily said.

  “I can't do that. You're a guest."

  “Yes, you can. I'm your mother and I'm telling you to go write. Give me the car keys. I've got a new recipe I want to try out on you.”

  Jane spent the rest of the afternoon blissfully involved with Priscilla. She made one quick run to the library to get a book on Colonial costume and another on social customs, but didn't let herself get sidetracked into reading them yet.

  Nor did she consciously let herself think about Mrs. Pryce's murder. But it kept running through her mind like a dark undercurrent. Missy, Grady, Bob Neufield, Desiree, Ruth, Naomi, and Maria Espinoza kept popping into her thoughts, and she kept shoving them aside.

  And other thoughts kept crowding in at her, too. The extra book in Shelley's car, the little birdcage, the beautiful flower arrangement. Were they, in some obscure way, threats? Somebody was giving her things. Of course, the book and birdcage could have been accidental. Things that just got left someplace and had nothing to do with her. But the flowers—what about the flowers? They weren't accidental. Someone deliberately sent her flowers. They went in and ordered and paid for them.