Jane loved tiny efficient spaces, and when she saw one, she immediately dreamed of clearing out all of her things and living in one room with just what she needed. She knew that urge would pass, but it was a pleasant brief sensation—the belief that she could be a minimalist. Dave could have been out for a walk, but it was more likely he had ridden his motorcycle into town. Jane had noticed earlier that a small trailer was hitched to the camper and she had seen that it held a Harley. It made sense that whoever drove the equipment down for a shoot might need alternative transportation, since the van, with all the tools and spare parts and extension cords, would need to remain with the equipment.
Jane took her notebook from her pocket and left Dave a note.
No lights tonight until we give a signal. I’m leaving a walkie-talkie here—switch it on after dark, and wait for anyone to ask for lights. We’re doing a little detective work, and we don’t want to alert anyone to our presence until we’re ready.
Thanks—Jane Wheel
Jane wasn’t totally pleased with the note, but couldn’t think of a better way to explain on a tiny piece of paper. She should have made a point to meet Dave and talk to him in person earlier in the day.
When she got back to the kitchen, still feeling unsatisfied with her communication or lack thereof with Dave, she opened a small closet next to the pantry that she had pegged as a utility closet. Hanging inside was an old broom, its bristles stiff and bent. On another peg was a hand-knit gray-cabled sweater with an oversized collar. Also on the hook was a wide wool scarf. Jane slipped the sweater on and buttoned it all the way up to her neck. It was perfect. The buttons, she was especially pleased to note, were large butter-scotch Bakelite discs in perfect condition. In the big pockets, she found some fingerless gloves and slipped them on. Her teeth still chattering from her walk out to the trailer, she layered the scarf around her shoulders and around her neck for double warmth.
I wonder if this is what Swanette wore when she worked outside in the fields. When she drove the tractor. Jane smiled and pictured her, an educated career woman Monday through Friday and a laborer in the fields on the weekends. Jane remembered all of those office girls as smart and educated, their manners and vocabularies so different from the usual factory workers at the EZ Way Inn.
Vocabulary?
Jane took out her small notebook and flipped back over the notes she had jotted down the past two days.
“Hey, sister, peace,” said Tim, swathed in poncho, coming into the kitchen with another box of green glass he had dug out of a closet for Nellie to wash. “Nice sweater. Very British old-money-walkies-with-the-dog-in-the-garden-maze and all. All you need are some Wellies, and then you could be one of those tough old birds who lives alone in her cottage by the sea.”
“Do you remember what I told you Swanette said when I found her in the shed? I know I wrote it down here.”
Tim came and looked over her shoulder. “Head. Head Oh. Headoh,” said Tim, hesitating over Jane’s handwriting. “See, honey? Sounds too much like hetero. It couldn’t have been me.”
“Hetero . . .” said Jane. “Of course. Swanette did crosswords, had a big vocabulary, would know the proper word for—”
“Jane,” called Nellie from the living room. “It’s almost six twenty-eight. You wanted to know when it was six-thirty.”
Whenever Jane needed to keep track of time and was anywhere near Nellie, she counted on her mother as a safer bet than the clocks at Greenwich, the chimes of Big Ben, or any timer, wristwatch, or cell phone alarm. Nellie ticked to an inner clock that, once set, surpassed any other man-or woman-made devices.
Jane called everyone into the living room.
“I’m going to have to take a call in a few minutes. Charley and Nick call on Sundays around now, and I can’t reach them, so I have to pick up when it rings. After that, I am turning off my cell phone. Everyone turn off your cell phones. Take these walkie-talkies that Tim had—”
“Do you use them at the big shows?” asked Claire.
“Essential. Kane County flea market or, hell, even the shows at the Merchandise Mart—they’re too big and I can’t risk a dropped call when I need to get my client in front of a piece I know is going to sell immediately—”
“Hey!” said Jane. “This is important. We have planted it all over town, at Edna’s when we ordered food, at the minimart, and with Ada’s ghost, that Tim and I will be working here alone tonight to sort out all of what we believe are the stolen goods. When the news gets to the people who have accumulated all this stuff, they know that tonight’s the night they have to act.
“Dad, I need you and Mom to drive off, following the Ohs, then you can double around to the service road and park inside the barn. The doors away from the view of the house are open. You and Mom and Rita will take the barn. Claire and Tim will stay in the house. Detective Oh and I will be out in the shed where Swanette was attacked.”
“What about me?” asked Michael.
“Chicken coop?” Jane asked. “Will you be all right out there?”
“I don’t like all this, honey,” said Don. “Putting together puzzle pieces is one thing, but this is police work.”
“You’re right,” said Oh. “I have discussed everything with Detective Cord, who might not totally approve, but was persuaded to give us one night to try our plan for capturing the thieves. He and his people are on watch. The two tractors out in the cornfield, you might remember, were not there earlier. There are officers stationed in both of them with a clear eye on the property. If anyone hears anything or sees anything, call for lights into your walkie-talkie.”
Jane looked at her father who didn’t appear any happier. She understood. He loved the idea that she was happy and brave and successful at her new career, but he didn’t really want this backstage look at what might turn into a dangerous finale. After all, wasn’t Swanette struck from behind in the shed because she stumbled upon something? Hadn’t they advertised that Jane and Tim had found something?
Jane had told Oh her concerns about leaving a note for the technician, Dave. What if he didn’t return in time for the “lights” signal? Oh had sent word to the police that this could be a problem and they were scouring local taverns and road houses, looking for a young man on a Harley, to alert him to the plan. If they didn’t find him, one of the police officers would station himself in the camper.
Jane’s cell phone rang then, and she waved to everyone, knowing that Oh would lead all who were supposed to drive off and repark in a few minutes. She clicked her phone on as she walked into the visitor’s parlor and made herself comfortable among piles of hand-crocheted pillow tops and top-stitched velvet crazy quilts.
“Nick? Oh sweetie, I miss you,” said Jane.
Although Nick didn’t say in so many words that he, too, missed his mother, Jane could tell by his excitement over their excavation work and his minute descriptions of the dig that he was as excited to talk to her as she was to him.
“Mom, I’m coming home next week,” he said. Was his voice deeper? “I thought I’d never want to come home, but I’m really ready. I even miss school!”
Jane wrapped one of the quilts around her ankles. She knew that in just a few minutes she would be planted outside in the dark waiting for someone dangerous to creep up onto the property, but right now, with her son’s voice giving her wonderful news, she felt completely safe and protected. Too soon Nick said he had to go so Dad could have a few minutes. The entire crew used the same phone, the only one that worked, on Sunday nights to call home, and Jane knew that Charley tried to respect everyone’s need to connect and catch up with family.
“Charley,” said Jane, “oh Charley, you’ve been gone forever this time.”
“Jane.”
Jane heard something. In the same way a deer senses a storm, a rabbit freezes at a circling hawk, Jane knew something. Her world was about to change.
“Nick says you’re coming home next week. I’ll be . . . I’ve missed you so much,” said Jan
e.
“Jane, this is all wrong, the totally wrong way to say anything about this, but I am no good at timing,” said Charley, keeping his voice very low. “Nick’s coming home next week.”
“And you’ll follow?” said Jane. “Soon.”
“The institute has asked me to stay on as the director. As the permanent director. I’ve thought of nothing else all week, I’ve been over and over this and I know I can do great work here.”
“Quite a commute, between Evanston and South America,” said Jane, trying to keep her voice light.
“I’m staying here,” said Charley.
“Your classes, your work here, Nick, me . . . What happened to our decisions, the ones we make together . . . ?” Jane said, trying not to open up a conversation that she would then have to abruptly end, proving to Charley that he had made the right decision, that it was she, Jane, who always put her work first.
“I’m calling Northwestern this week. They’ll either give me a leave for this or I’ll quit. Jane, you know when you were working in advertising, you were really good at what you did, but you always said it wasn’t your work. Your real work. Well, I’ve found my real work. The place, the country, the people . . .”
And then Jane knew. A key turned in a lock inside of her head, a door opened, and light flooded in. Charley had fallen in love.
“Jane?” he said, sounding younger than Nick. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll sort it all out,” said Jane. “When can you call again, alone, so we can go over the fine print?” Jane asked, surprising herself with her own sense of calm. She heard the cars pulling out of the driveway and knew that in a few moments, she would be on duty in her field of choice, doing her real work.
“Charley?” said Jane, realizing that she did have one question that she needed answered immediately. “Does Nick know?”
“God, no,” said Charley. “Jane, nothing has happened here. Nothing. But I—”
“But it will,” said Jane.
They agreed to talk midweek, before Nick came home, so that they would all be on the same page. Jane actually used that phrase, on the same page. She was about to be lost in a whole new book, one written in another language, one that she did not understand or speak, and yet she had pulled that particular cliché out . . . the same page. Ah well, she thought, it matches the fine print.
“Mrs. Wheel?” said Oh. “I am sorry, but if you’re ready, I think perhaps we should find our places.”
It was like a play. Jane sensed that more than ever. It always had an unreal sense, this detective work. But today, Oh had explained lighting design and discussed theater work with her, and now Charley had involved her in a timeworn scene she had witnessed on the stage, in front of movie screens hundreds of times. They had had their ups and downs, she and Charley. She had practically thrown away this good man when her life was in chaos a few short years ago, but hadn’t they come together, stronger and more in synch than ever? Or had Jane just thought that because she had everything she wanted? A best friend in Tim. A partner in Oh. Where did Charley fit in? A husband who traveled and was fulfilled by his work and who basically left her alone to . . .
To what? Find Bakelite buttons? What was it again she did for a living? Oh yes, she scavenged junk that others threw away, and once in a while, she solved a crime. And when she was staring at other peoples’ old stuff, she knew that she wore blinders, she saw nothing else. If asked, would she be able to describe Charley’s face as well as she might the hand stitching on a quilt, or a Heisey glass pattern?
“Mrs. Wheel? Is anything . . . is everything . . .”
“Yes. Anything. Everything. But I’m ready.”
Jane Wheel then did what she always did very well. She wrapped up her personal life in a vintage blue handkerchief, tied it with a yellow grosgrain ribbon, and put it away. It was not so easy this time to make a neat little bundle. She could feel the what about . . . and the who will and how will I pieces of this spilling out and hissing at her through the dark. She tucked in the ends and sealed the imaginary package even tighter. She would have much to deal with when she unwrapped it again, but for now, there was a story right here, right now, that needed an ending.
18
Neither Jane nor Tim had found any trace of the jewels or coins that Swanette had mentioned in the phone message. Whoever had hit her could have taken whatever it was she had discovered in the shed. But since all the boxes still seemed so neatly packed and stacked, it was likely that Swanette thought she had glimpsed something, made the call, and was struck. The person who hit her might not have had time to ferret out what Swanette had described or thought she had discovered. Now in the fading light of the day, as she and Oh settled into the shed, Jane decided to search until she found some object for which someone might be tempted to kill.
Oh lost himself in the corner shadows, shining his flashlight on each box on the shelf in front of him. Although Jane had no reason to hide—she was supposed to be there, working away, pricing items for an estate sale and/or cataloging stolen goods—she, too, used a small light to examine the boxes. This plan would work best if any visitors believed she and Tim had remained working in the house.
“Mrs. Wheel, I think you are right about these boxes belonging to different people. Your observations about the handwriting, the labeling style . . . it all makes sense. But what puzzles me is the accumulation of such a variety . . .”
“I know. I said before it’s like one box off several different moving trucks and who would have the inclination or the access . . . I mean, as a thief, I want stuff I can get rid of for quick money, right? Jewels or art or electronics? Why would I ever want a box of . . . ?” Jane paused while she reached into the carton she had just slit open with a box cutter marked “Extra Kitchen” in bold marker and pulled out a handful of serving utensils. Nothing special . . . a large slotted spoon, a ladle, a cold-meat fork, a spatula. She held up the spatula and rotated it in front of her face. “There is nothing special about this, no Bakelite handle, no red-painted wooden handle, just a utilitarian stainless spatula that you might keep around as a spare. I see these at garage sales all the time . . . actually at the end of garage sales. Objects too good to throw away, but too ordinary to collect. So people put them out at their sale and they don’t sell and then what happens to them? Packed up, donated, or stored—” Jane stopped.
“Stored and . . . ?” Oh said, prompting. The detective knew when he was out of his depth. Tracing the life cycle and storage of a spatula clearly fell under Mrs. Wheel’s purview.
“This is the kind of thing that goes into the kind of box with stuff that’s too good to throw away, but not good enough to miss,” said Jane.
Oh nodded, realizing that she couldn’t really see him in the gloom of the shed, but knowing it didn’t matter. Mrs. Wheel would continue her “aha” moment, with or without an attentive audience.
“Have you ever moved?” asked Jane.
“Sorry?”
“Moved residences. Moved from apartment to apartment, house to house?” asked Jane.
“We lived in the city in an apartment before moving into our home, yes,” said Oh.
“Did you pack up yourself, then hire movers?” asked Jane.
“Yes.”
“In your new and pristine home, did all the stuff you brought with you overwhelm you? Did you put boxes aside, maybe into your basement, to unpack later, then realize after a few months you never missed what was in them?”
“Not exactly, but I understand where you’re going. Claire had some things. I travel rather light, Mrs. Wheel.”
“Right, but most people don’t. Ada’s brother James . . . our ghost, I guess . . . had a job other than taking care of Ada. He took care of some small apartment buildings owned by their parents. To her knowledge those buildings were sold some years ago, but James could have kept the keys or copies of them and even if someone changed all the locks on all the apartment doors, does anyone bother to change all the locks to the basements or
the padlocks on the storage lockers? In these little local apartments? And Swanette had a ring of keys with her when she was attacked. Maybe the handyman she hired to help care for Lee’s mother, her mother-in-law, was a friend or partner of Brother James. There must be someone involved who inherited the business—and maybe even the keys—from Brother James.
“When Charley and I moved to the house we live in now”—Jane paused for just a moment, considering her use of we and wondering how difficult the habit would be to break—“I packed up boxes of stuff I had accumulated and had the movers take it down to the basement. There are probably still boxes there that had been in the storage area of our apartment that I hadn’t wanted to go through before the move. People cart boxes and boxes from place to place until they have absolutely no memory of what they have stored, what they’ve sold at a garage sale, what they’ve given away. It’s a big, clunky, cardboard-box trail we leave from place to place as we move through life,” said Jane. Remembering that she was talking to Bruce Oh, she added, “Most of us, that is.”
James Speller, Jane was certain, took the occasional box from a storage locker. Maybe, at first, it was stuff that was left behind when people moved on. It might not have been actual stealing. But somewhere along the line, either he or whoever he partnered up with realized they could sell things on the Internet . . . all kinds of random objects. And they might only find one box out of ten that held something valuable, but if they were just doing it as a side business or for a little extra income, it was a pretty safe way to procure inventory. Just take the oldest, most battered box at the bottom of the pile in the storage locker.
Scary Stuff Page 19
