A Farewell to Yarns jj-2

by Jill Churchill

  “I'm not convinced. But maybe you're right. So you think Chet killed her?”

  He set his coffee cup by the sink and started strolling toward the front door. "You know I'm not supposed to discuss my opinions with the general public."

  “That just means you don't have any idea yet—and I'm not the 'general public.' I'm Phyllis's friend. Probably the last person to see her alive except for the killer.”

  VanDyne had reached the front door and was resting his hand lightly on the handle, giving her a long, cool look. "Yes, that's quite true, isn't it.”

  Jane felt her heart sink. "Why—why you jerk! You didn't come here for a friendly chat. You came here to interrogate me. Am I one of your suspects?"

  “At this stage, everybody is," he said calmly. There was something that looked suspiciously like a smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

  “Not me! Get out!"

  “Okay," he said, cheerfully ignoring her fury. "I'll see you later—Jane.”

  She slammed the door behind him, then leaned on it, listening to Willard's renewed frenzy of barking. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. He was really maddening. But maddening was a lot better than boring.

  Jane found herself wondering what it would be like to talk with him about something other than crime. What if he did actually ask her out sometime? What would they discuss? Where would they go? Just how much would they find they had in common? Would he find her the slightest bit interesting if he weren't trying to get specific information from her? And would she find him interesting once she got her fill of admiring his smile? She'd reached the dizzy point of speculating on what it would be like to kiss him when Willard, still incarcerated in the basement, let out a pitiful howl.

  “I know just how you feel," she said to him.

  Fourteen

  Jane released Willard and went back to work on the vacuum cleaner. But she'd hardly gotten it together before there was another knock on the door. She opened it to find her friend Suzie Williams from down the street. "Jesus H. God, Jane, can't you shut that dog up?" Suzie asked.

  She was a big, gorgeous woman who made a mockery of the entire theory of dieting. Built roughly along the lines of Mae West, she had masses of naturally curly, naturally platinum blond hair—or at least, it was artfully contrived to look natural. A buyer and saleswoman for the foundations section of the local department store, Suzie was also the living denial of the career woman. Though she was extremely successful at her job, she made no bones about her constant search for a man to first inhabit her bed and then, if sexually satisfactory, to fill her checkbook with lovely money that he made. In addition, she was the most refreshingly vulgar person Jane had ever known.

  “Come in, Suzie. What are you doing at large in the middle of the day?"

  “Watch that 'at large' talk," Suzie said, sailing through to the kitchen. "I was on my way home for lunch and saw a red MG in your driveway. So I cruised the block until it left. That was our old pal Detective VanDyne, wasn't it?"

  “Yes, it was. I swear, that man makes me crazy."

  “That good, huh?"

  “That's not what I mean—more's the pity.”

  “Cut through the crap, Jane. What was he doing here? If you're screwing him, I want every juicy detail. Then I want to know how I can get in line to be next. From the looks of his car and clothes, he makes a decent living." She fished in her purse, brought out a couple of candy canes, and offered one to Jane.

  “No, thanks. I'm not screwing Mel VanDyne. Only daydreaming."

  “Oh, it's 'Mel' now, is it? Jane, I'm short on time, and I'm missing my lunch to butt in here. Aren't you going to offer me a sandwich while you tell me everything?"

  “I haven't got any bread that doesn't have green fuzz on it. Let's get a hamburger instead.”

  They got into Suzie's car and went to the local McDonald's. While hunched hungrily over Big Macs ("None of that salad crap for me. I have to keep up my strength to spend an afternoon fitting corsets," Suzie said), Jane explained why Mel VanDyne had been at her house.

  Suzie daintily chewed the last of her second order of large fries and said, "I'd opt for that asshole Finch. I'd like to see him in the clink whether he did it or not."

  “What have you got against Mr. Finch?"

  “Not half as much as he tried to put against me. I was out for a walk one day last summer, and as I passed his house, he latches on to me and starts yammering about his new toolshed. I guess it was the silly bastard's idea of flirting. Well, I didn't have much of anything I was in a hurry to do, and I figured, hell, why not let the old fool have the thrill of showing the damned thing to me? Well! He lures me into the shed thing, which reeks of insecticide, and all of a sudden he's all hands and pelvis."

  “What did you do?"

  “Kneed him in the crotch, of course. That really jarred his dentures. Silly old fool."

  “He's not so old, is he?"

  “I guess not. Only fifty or so, but that old-maid prissy sort of man always seems older. I'd chalked him up as gay before, which is why the whole thing took me so off guard. Men don't often take me by surprise."

  “Suzie, I think you ought to tell VanDyne about this. Finch might have tried to rape Phyllis and ended up killing her."

  “Rape? He wouldn't do that."

  “But you said you had to fight him off."

  “Oh, it wasn't so much that I had to as I got to. I was never in any danger. I was just pissed at him. No, I don't think Finch is really a strong possibility, much as I'd like him to be, and much as I'd like an excuse to have a chummy little visit with Vandyne. I think it's her husband or the stepson. Murder usually runs in families, you know."

  “But her husband loved her."

  “Horseshit! You weigh love against paying alimony, and love loses every time. Even my husband—asshole that he is—was real generous about everything until we got divorced. But it's like pulling teeth to get my child support every month—and he's crazy about our kid; he just can't stand the idea of me so much as getting to look at his money as it goes by."

  “But Chet has lots of money. More than he needs."

  “Come on, Jane! Nobody thinks they have more than they need. All the greed or drive or whatever the hell it takes to get it and keep it can't ever be turned off."

  “Maybe you're right."

  “You can bet on it. I've got to get back to work. There's a world of women out there who are too old to jiggle and crying out for my attention. You through with your lunch?”

  As Suzie dropped her off at home, she said, "Oh, Jane, I nearly forgot. I got Monday off work to help with the bazaar. And I've always got Friday afternoons, so I can help you tomorrow, if you need me."

  “We sure do. I'd nearly forgotten about the bazaar with all this other business.”

  Jane spent the remainder of the afternoon doing one of her assigned jobs for the church bazaar. Seated at the kitchen table with the phone and her list of potential helpers, she managed to get a patchy sort of schedule worked out. She, Shelley, and Fiona were doing all the sorting and setting up and would also work the actual sale. But many more people were needed before and after.

  Examples of the best of the merchandise would be displayed in the foyer at church the coming Sunday morning—though there was a bit of grumbling from the pious about this blatant display of commercialism. One woman carried on as if they were planning to be hawking plastic Santas right from the altar. To these folks, Jane gave her standard speech about the church not being able to function in a real world on faith alone. She had this prim little speech down by rote, and it quelled most of them into agreeing to help in some capacity.

  The selected items would remain there to be shown again at the church choir concert that night. With some difficulty, Jane managed to find volunteers to gather up the display examples after the concert and take them back to Fiona's.

  Monday morning, the sale would begin, and Jane needed a whole new set of people to work that day. Some volunteers
would blanket the neighborhood with signs, and others would work at the actual sale. It wasn't hard to find people for this job, which was considered the fun part. It was also a way to be visibly charitable. Women who hadn't lifted a finger or checkbook to help in any other capacity volunteered for an hour or two of sale work with the air of a queen offering to confer her presence on the masses.

  The hardest part was finding people to help clear out what was left. The previous bazaar chairman had warned them that the number of leftovers could be overwhelming, and it was imperative to have people who had not contributed items be responsible for what got thrownout and what got saved for future sales. The year before last, she confided, the Parslow sisters took on the job, and ninety percent of what was left had been created lovingly—if tackilyby them. There had been tears and hysteria.

  Each call required a certain amount of pleasant chat. Unlike dealing with paid employees, Jane couldn't just briskly tell people what they were supposed to do and hang up. She had to listen politely to elaborate excuses that had to do with children, husbands, chicken pox, school programs, hysterectomies, and out of town family visits. Some were willing enough to volunteer but wanted to extract some promise or another from Jane in return. By the time she was done, she'd agreed to run for secretary of the local M.A.D.D. group, drive a load of kindergartners to a greenhouse in February as part of their Growing Things unit, operate the cotton candy machine at the P.T.A. carnival in April, and chaperone the midterm high school band booster pizza party in January.

  And while she talked, Jane crocheted madly, silently mouthing "triple, triple, triple, single—" all the while. Just before she had to pause in her scheduling efforts and start her car pool runs, Jane laid out the afghan on the living room floor. It was really getting to be very pretty, and if she didn't eat or sleep between now and Sunday, there was a chance she could finish it.

  She'd half formed the thought that maybe Phyllis could help her with it before she remembered that Phyllis was dead. Her busy afternoon had almost made her forget. She suddenly felt a great sense of loss for a woman she'd never really known very well. Phyllis Wagner would never help with an afghan, or finish a sweater for her son, or do anything. Jane had tears in her eyes as she shoved Willard off the afghan and gathered it up to work on while she waited for the kids.

  Jane had worried about telling the children, especially Todd, about Phyllis's death. But because she fudged on the truth (leading them to believe the death was natural) and because they'd never heard Jane talk about her friend Phyllis, much less met her, they took the news well, if not to say downright callously. "That's too bad, Mom. When are we having dinner? I've got to go to brass section practice at seven," Mike said when he got home.

  “I bet you feel sad," Todd said, then turned his attention back to teasing Willard with a potato chip.

  Katie, surprisingly, showed the most sympathy, even if it was badly expressed. "That's awful, Mom. I guess someday I'll get old and my friends will start dying, too."

  “I'm not old!"

  “You know what I mean."

  “I'm not sure I do."

  “Mom, you know that yellow Esprit sweater at the mall? The one I made you come see? Jenny says she was there last night, and it was on sale.”

  A full price version and the coordinated slacks were already wrapped in Christmas paper in Jane's bedroom closet. "I'm sorry, Katie, I toldyou no more yellow sweaters. You already have two."

  “Yeah , but you borrowed one and got mustard on it, remember?"

  “Mom, somebody at the door for you. A man," Mike said as he passed through on the way to the refrigerator.

  Wondering how long it might have taken Mike to deliver this news if he hadn't been hungry, Jane tucked in her blouse and said, "Katie, put that dog in the basement before he notices a stranger in the house.”

  She half expected (hoped?) the caller was Mel VanDyne. She was surprised to see a man she didn't recognize for a second, then she realized this was the Scourge of the Volleyball Court. "You don't know me, Mrs. Jeffry, but I'm John Wagner."

  “Please come in." Leading the way, she took him to the living room. Todd had the television on, looking for something to watch. "Scoot, kiddo," she said. He tossed her the controller, an object she'd never understood. Rather than show her ignorance, she set the gadget on an end table without trying to turn off the set. "We have met," she told her guest. "At volleyball a year or so ago.”

  His look of surprise turned to embarrassment. "Oh, yes. I do remember. I had to quit playing. My wife threatened to leave me. I turn into a sort of Hitler when I play games.”

  Jane's previous opinion of him crumbled. Could this self-effacing man be the same monster who'd called her a pinhead three times in one game? "It's a good thing she stopped you.

  You know what happened to Hitler. Mr. Wagner, I'm sorry about your stepmother."

  “I came to offer my sympathy to you as well. It must be a terrible blow, as close as you were to her. I remember her mentioning you. She was always quoting from your letters.”

  Jane felt as if she'd been stabbed—right to the heart. "I enjoyed her letters, too," she mumbled, agonizingly aware that she couldn't recall so much as a single phrase from those boring epistles.

  They were both silent for a moment, then both started to speak at once. "Company first," Jane said with a smile.

  “I came to ask a favor of you. The police have asked me to come over and look at her things. To see if there's anything among them that isn't hers—in case the killer dropped something. Of course, my father would know best, if anybody could locate him, but I'd sort of like to spare him the job, if I could. Besides, it just seems a job a woman ought to do for another woman. I wonder if you'd be willing to help me."

  “I'd be happy to, but I won't have any more idea than you do what belongs to her and what doesn't."

  “Oh, but you knew her so well. I'm sure you can tell just by looking if it's something she'd have or not.”

  Worse and worse! There wasn't a Jewish mother who ever lived who could match this man for laying on guilt.

  “I'll do what I can, of course. Do you mean no one has told your father yet?"

  “Nobody can find him. He's just not used toaccounting for his movements to anybody but Phy—Oh, my God—!”

  He was staring past Jane as if he'd seen a ghost. Turning her head, Jane saw it, too—a portrait photo of Phyllis Wagner was on the television screen. She quickly picked up the mysterious controller, fidgeted frantically for a few seconds before finding the volume control.

  . . wife of entrepreneur Chester Wagner. The former Chicagoan reportedly died of stab wounds. Police located her husband this afternoon at a downtown hotel under an assumed name....”

  On the screen a fit, tanned, silver-haired man was being escorted to a police car. At least he wasn't handcuffed, and without the narration, he would have looked like a diplomat with his own security men. "Oh, shit—" John Wagner whispered, leaning forward.

  The next shot was of Mel VanDyne shaking his head and holding a palm out toward the camera.

  “No, we are merely questioning Mr. Wagner in regard to his wife's death. There has been no arrest. You will be informed when there is.”

  The station cut to a commercial, and Jane and Wagner were left staring at each other wordlessly.

  Fifteen

  “I'mnot going to let this happen. Those bas- tards aren't going to pin this on my father," John Wagner exclaimed, standing suddenly and striding toward the door. "Excuse me, Mrs. Jeffry." With that, he was gone.

  Jane sat quietly for a minute after the door slammed, then picked up the controller and started cruising through channels. It was time for the local news, and each of the major stations had something to say about Phyllis's death. All the reports focused on Chet, as if Phyllis herself were nothing more than an important object belonging to him. Of course, what was there to say about her except that she was Chet's wife? That she once made lonely old people happy with tatted ornament
s? That she was a superb knitter? That she loved a long lost son who didn't deserve her? Hardly.

  One station showed a picture of the house with the yellow plastic police barricades. Another had dredged up a file photo of Phyllis in a crowd of second string international celebrities. A third went on at quite some length about Chet's financial empire and showed a shot ofthe island house—or was it the hotel? Jane couldn't tell.

  She learned nothing more than she'd heard earlier about the case, but she did see a familiar face on one report. It was the same scene she'd seen on the other channel, Chet being led to a car by two plainclothes officers, but it was shot from a slightly different angle, and in the background two men were conversing over an open notebook. One of them was a big, late-middleaged man in a somewhat wrinkled gray suit and a fedora hat right out of the forties.

  He was Jane's Uncle Jim—not a real uncle but an honorary one, her father's lifelong best friend. Formerly of the army, for many years with the Chicago police department, he remained close to Jane, especially since Steve died and left her "a helpless widow" in his words. She turned off the television, went to the kitchen, and dialed his precinct telephone number. He'd gone for the day, she was told. There was no answer at his apartment yet.

  While she waited, she got out some ground beef and onions to brown. Ten minutes later, when they were nearly done, Shelley came over. "Jane, did you see the news? Your friend was all over it."

  “I know. Did you see my Uncle Jim in the background? I'm waiting for him to get home so I can pump him for information."

  “He's not crazy about giving you inside information, is he?"

  “I want 'outside' information," Jane said, carefully draining the meat and onion mixture and adding beans and tomato sauce. "John Wagner was here. Shelley, it was weird. He was nice. Nice!"

  “Jane, have you considered getting psychiatric help? You're going to clog up your disposal if you don't run cold water.”

  Jane turned on the water. "I mean it about John Wagner. He even apologized for being so hateful about volleyball."