“Why not? I thought it sounded good," Van-Dyne said, looking like he hated to admit it.
“The dishwasher was still on prewash when I came over after Shelley called. So Mrs. Thur-good must have started it just before she was killed, and everybody had come and gone before then.”
VanDyne got up and looked at the controls of the dishwasher. "Mrs. Nowack, had you set this to start in the afternoon?"
“What do you mean? Oh, yes, it is one of those, isn't it?"
“One of what?" Jane asked, joining him and bending over to see what he was looking at. "What in the world are all these buttons, Shelley?"
“It's got a thing where you can load it up and program it to start in the middle of the night."
“Why in the world would anybody want to do that?" Jane asked.
“I have no idea. It would scare the stuffing out of me if it started gushing and thrashing at four A.M., so I never bothered to learn anything but 'wash' and 'cancel.' "
“It's so you can use it at nonpeak water consumption hours," VanDyne explained. "In some parts of the country that matters."
“So—" Jane began.
“So we've been looking at this dishwasher business as proof she was alive and it isn't necessarily. You're sure you didn't set it yourself, Mrs. Nowack?"
“Not unless I did it accidentally. I don't know or care how that timer gadget works."
“Wait a minute!" Jane said. "Don't you have a pathologist or coroner or somebody who can tell when she died?"
“Yes, but he can't set a very good time in this case. You see, that's determined in large part by the temperature of the body in relation to weight, room temperature, and the stage of rigor mortis, which is also influenced by surrounding temperature. That was a guest room, which Mrs. Nowack keeps closed off with the furnace vents also closed. It was pretty chilly the night before, so the room might have been quite cool. We don't know. When Mrs. Thurgood opened the door, she let it start warming up from who knows what temperature. In addition, the body was lying in a shaft of sunlight, which also threw off the temperature calculations. The coroner puts a tentative time of death at between noon and two. So, you see, the dishwasher evidence was in contradiction to that, and now we know — or suspect why."
“You're saying whoever killed her very calmly set the dishwasher to start at a time when she — or he — had an alibi?"
“Not necessarily. It might have just been a last-minute gesture to generally confuse the issue. And it has.”
Jane sat down shakily. She hadn't adjusted to the idea of one of her neighbors killing someone, much less doing it cold-bloodedly enough to think of something like that.
“Did any of the women who brought food see the cleaning lady when they came?" Shelley asked.
“Mrs. Wallenberg didn't, of course, because she was here before Mrs. Thurgood and didn't come in anyway. Mrs. Williams says the house was quiet, and so does Mrs. Revere, who came right after her. But Mrs. Jones was here an hour after that, and she mentioned that the victim was vacuuming the living room. Mrs. Greenway heard her moving around in the study. Mrs. Stapler says she didn't see or hear anything, but she also made the point that she stayed only briefly."
“Terrified, no doubt, even though she had no way of knowing anything was wrong. She's like that," Jane said. "Her husband has a safety store, whatever that is, and she takes caution very much to heart."
“Well, I guess that pretty well covers everybody who was in and out that day," Shelley said, leaning back.
VanDyne didn't reply for a minute; then he said, very softly, "Not quite everybody.”
Jane thought for a second that he meant Shelley's alibi hadn't held up. She knew she'd come to Shelley's defense, no matter what questions she might privately entertain.
He turned his head slightly, and Jane felt his gaze on her face.
“You were the last person to bring a dish, weren't you, Mrs. Jeffry?”
Fifteen
"That son of a bitch actually thinks I killed your cleaning lady!"
“Now, Jane. He doesn't either. You're overreacting.”
They stood at the kitchen door, watching the red MG back out and drive away.
“Then why did he make that remark about my being the last person to bring a dish? And did you see the fishy look that went with it? The idiot was waiting for me to break down and confess, like the last scene in a Perry Mason movie!"
“Maybe he does suspect both of us," Shelley admitted. "But why shouldn't he? He doesn't know us any more than he knows the rest of them. Once you accept the premise that a perfectly respectable suburban housewife might have cold-bloodedly murdered somebody, where do you draw the line as to which one is capable of it?”
Jane sat down at the table. "It was bad enough being afraid of the killer, but now we have to be scared of the police too. They're sup‑ posed to look after dull, law-abiding people like us, not terrorize us."
“I know what you mean and I feel the same way, but I don't think he means to scare us. Asking questions about what you saw and heard is probably necessary information to clear you."
“This is when you start telling me about the bridge in Brooklyn you have for sale, right? Come on, Shelley!”
Shelley shrugged. "I don't see what we can do about it. As far as I'm concerned, VanDyne can suspect us all he wants. He's obviously not going to prove anything because we didn't do it. Here, help me get this stuff out of the refrigerator. That'll take your mind off him. I wonder if I ought to give the food back or not? This is Monday and it came on Thursday. No, it's probably going yucky. I think I'll run it all down the disposal and let everybody think Paul and I were pigs and ate it.”
Jane got up and started handing bowls to Shelley. The first to go was her carrot salad. "I never even got to taste it," she said sadly. "I'm still mad, Shelley. If he really just wanted to clear me, he could have said so.”
She handed over Laura's cucumber and onion salad; Shelley peeled off the plastic wrap and sniffed at the dish. "I love this stuff. What a pity to throw it out. Do you think—?"
“No, pitch it! This is the one that will really break your heart. The brisket." She set the big lidded plastic container on the counter with a thud.
“No, that I'm going to take back to Joyce. Shecan throw it out herself if she wants. Will you quit flouncing around? You're going to break something."
“Shelley, I don't think you're taking this seriously enough. If he can think I might have done it when I brought my salad, he's only half a step away from suspecting you of doing it a few minutes later. In fact, he might decide we were in on it together, or that one of us is covering for the other, and that way we'd both be in trouble. Accessory to murder is a prison term too. Oh, God—!”
The big bowl of potato salad slipped from her grip and hit the floor. The plate that had served as a lid bounced against the table leg and shattered; the bowl rolled sideways, flinging potato salad around the room.
“Oh, hell! How am I going to find a matching plate?" Shelley moaned, staring down at the mess. "Is the bowl broken?"
“No. And don't worry about the plate. It was my fault. Here." She handed Shelley the bowl and started scooping up globs of potato salad with a spatula and flinging them into the sink. "Give me a paper towel to get this glass.”
Murder was forgotten while they cleaned up and disposed of the rest of the food. Shelley washed the dishes and Jane behaved herself while she dried them and stacked them up.
“Let's go ahead and take them back," Shelley said. "If we don't, everybody will come here and talk to me endlessly about the whole thing. I'm sick of it."
“You better not get too sick of it, not with that man suspecting us.”
Shelley just rolled her eyes at this. "Take Mary Ellen's bowl back while I put the rest of them in the car.”
Tucking the heavy, slippery bowl firmly under her arm, Jane went across the street and rang Mary Ellen's doorbell. She answered it a moment later. Today she was in a charcoal jogging suit t
hat set off the blond in her hair beautifully. Didn't she ever look bad?
“Jane, come in.”
Jane walked through to the kitchen and set the bowl down carefully. "I'm sorry, the plate on top got broken. It was my fault. I'll get you a new one.”
Mary Ellen smiled. "You can't. And I don't want you to. It was just a grocery-store giveaway. You know, you buy ten dollars' worth of stuff and get the plate for a quarter. I'm glad to see the end of it. Sit down, will you?"
“Thanks, but I can't. Shelley and I are taking all the dishes back."
“What's happening, Jane? I saw that man in the red car over there a while ago. Do they know who did it yet? I haven't seen anything more in the paper about it, and I didn't like to bother Shelley by asking questions. I know she must be awfully upset."
“They don't seem to know much," Jane said. She wasn't sure whether the theory of it being the wrong victim was supposed to be a secret or not. Probably not, or VanDyne wouldn't have told her, but still… "Did he come talk to you?"
“The detective? Yes. He seemed to expect to find that I spent the whole day with my nose glued to the front window, spying on the neighbors. He was disappointed, I think, at how little I knew about everybody's comings and goings."
“You didn't see anything or anybody unusual that day?"
“No. I work in the den all day, and that window faces the side yard. Unless I'm passing through the living room to do laundry or something, I never see what's going on in the street.”
Jane started back toward the front door. "How's your arm?"
“Feeling better. The doctor gave me some stuff for pain, and I'm getting used to it and don't bash it into the furniture so often now."
“Do you need me to take you to the store or anything?"
“It's nice of you to offer, but Ed's been real good about helping out. He's even been cooking." She wrinkled her nose, indicating wordlessly that the intent might be noble but the results questionable.
“How long do you have to keep the cast on?" Mary Ellen looked surprised. "I have no idea. I didn't even think to ask.”
There was a beep in front. Shelley was honking for Jane to get a move on. "Gotta run, Mary Ellen. I'm really sorry about the plate. Are you sure—"
“Positive.”
As Jane climbed into the minivan, they saw Suzie Williams come up the street and pull into her driveway. "What's she doing home?”
Jane glanced at her watch. It was only five before eleven. "Maybe an early lunch hour. Let's find out. We can get rid of one more dish.”
Suzie came to the door scowling, but bright‑ ened when she saw them. "Let me guess! You're the committee for public decency, come to straighten me out."
“You probably need it," Jane said. "What are you doing home at this time of day?”
Suzie motioned them in and headed for the kitchen with Jane and Shelley in her wake. "I'm taking the rest of the day off. Cramps. I'm so sick of this filthy female plumbing. Cramps, at my age! It's all so goddamn useless. I mean, what the hell good is a uterus anyway when you're through having kids? Ovaries are okay, but a womb? It's just a damn nuisance. If hysterectomies weren't so expensive, I'd buy myself one. Coffee? Coke?"
“You're not that old," Shelley said.
“I'll be thirty-eight next month, kiddo, and if I got pregnant now, I'd shoot some guy in the balls and then put the gun in my mouth. Jesus God, have you forgotten how miserable babies are? Remember sterilizers, diapers, colic, unexplained fevers in the middle of the night that scare the shit out of you and disappear by the time the doctor's on the case?”
Suzie and Shelley chatted for a few minutes of the almost forgotten horrors — and joys of babies. Jane was quiet, trying to observe Suzie and her house as if she were a stranger. She'd known Suzie for years and liked her outspoken, vulgar way of expressing herself and the energy she brought to anything she did or talked about. But what did she really know about her?
She glanced around the kitchen, looking for clues to the secret Suzie. She had nice enough things, selected with taste, but all a bit old and worn. The ornaments on the shelf over the tiny kitchen desk were all obviously school projects of Bob's. Some pictures he'd drawn, a lopsided ceramic sugar bowl, nothing that really said anything about Suzie herself. Jane couldn't remember seeing any family pictures, just school pictures of the boy displayed with pride.
Suzie rarely mentioned her ex-husband, and when she did it was in scathing terms. Jane seemed to recall that he'd left her for another woman—"A thin little bitch," as buxom Suzie put it. It was apparently some time ago, because Suzie had lived in the neighborhood since her son was in preschool. There must have been a decent divorce settlement for Suzie to have bought the house and furnished it nicely, but probably not much alimony; she made it clear that she wasn't working to "fulfill" herself, but to keep their roof over their heads. And the furniture and carpets, while clean and neat, were beginning to show age. Bob didn't spend summers with his father like so many of the kids of divorced parents in the neighborhood, so there must not be any contact with him.
Jane searched her memory. Where was Suzie from? Somewhere in the South, she thought. For her first few years here she'd carried on hideously about the winters. "I never thought I'd see the day when I'd go trudging around ass-deep in the snow!" she said the first time they'd met. So why had she come here?
“I'm asking you for the last time what you want to drink!" Suzie said, shaking Jane's arm.
“Oh! Sorry. A Coke, I think. Wasn't that one of the choices?"
“Sure, but it's full of sugar and caffeine. Do you care?"
“I wouldn't want it any other way," Jane said fervently.
“A woman after my own heart. I don't know why caffeine's suddenly got such a bad rep. First they take away our Dexedrine, then they go after caffeine. It's not fair. How's a girl to get through the day?"
“Suzie, where are you from?" Jane asked. "Texas, why?"
“I just wondered. You don't have an accent."
“Southern accents don't take on Swedes, didn't you know? Try to picture Mrs. Olson saying 'Haf sum coffee — y'awl.' I can do it if I need to." She drew herself up, tossed her long, platinum hair, and assumed a sleepy, southern-belle look. "Ah doan know what y'awl city folks mean 'bout accents. I tawk just 'bout like my daddy. Sheeeet. It's a three-syllable word in the South, shit. She-eee-it.”
Shelley choked on her drink.
“Where are you from, Jane?" Suzie asked, politely ignoring Shelley.
“Everywhere. My father was a civil servant with a genius for languages. He was also very handsome and had a good family background. So everytime anybody needed a highly presentable translator, he was it. We lived almost anywhere there had ever been an embassy. What about your folks?"
“No idea," she said breezily. "They dropped me off at an orphanage when I was two. I was raised in foster homes."
“Oh, I'm sorry.”
Suzie sat down and leaned her arms on the table. "Why? It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't so bad. Foster parents have gotten a bad rep too. Most of mine were nice.”
Jane had the feeling she'd said something very tactless, but couldn't tell quite what it was. Suzie and Shelley were both sipping their drinks and staring at her, as if eager to see which foot she'd put in her mouth next.
“Suzie, was Edith blackmailing you?" Shelley gasped.
Suzie just stared at her for an extraordinarily long moment, then chuckled. "That's so goddamn unsubtle I can't believe you said it! Like something out of Monty Python. Jane, you're priceless."
“Well, was she?"
“Hell, no! What for? No, wait — let me see if I can figure this out. You think I'm a Libyan spy in disguise, this is a blond wig, and I asked the cleaning lady to dust a basement full of bombs!" She shrieked with delight. "Or maybe I'm a mass murderer who slaughtered an entire Texastown and came here to hide out. Edith found my shotgun with forty-seven notches on the handle.”
Even though she was the butt of the
joke, Jane found herself joining Suzie's infectious laughter. "Actually, I had you pegged for hijacking a truckload of pomegranates—"
“And Edith found her with juice running down her chin and her bra stuffed with seeds," Shelley put in.
They tossed off progressively sillier ideas for a few minutes, and Suzie finally said, "Bless your sneaky little heart, Jane, you've made me almost forget my cramps. Will you both stay for lunch? It's getting to be that time.”
Shelley stood up, wiping her eyes. "Thanks, no, Suzie. I want to get as many of these dishes back as I can.”
Suzie walked them to the door, still giggling. But as they started to walk away, she grew serious. "Jane, do you really think that's what the murder was about? Edith blackmailing someone? Is that what your cocky, handsome detective thinks?"
“Who knows what he thinks? He interviewed you, I hear."
“Yes, but he didn't get anywhere," she said with a lecherous look. "I didn't reveal any neighborhood secrets."
“Do you really know any?"
“Sure, so do you, if you stop and think about it. Quiet little abortions before it was legal, affairs, questionable incomes, that sort of thing. But if we know them, they're not exactly secrets anyway. But Jane, there's something you ought to think about while you're on this little private quest for the truth
“What?"
“Nobody's ever had the balls to try a thing like blackmail on me. Partly because I don't have anything nasty enough for it to work. But if it had been true — if she had been blackmailing me and you'd asked me — Jane, I'd have said exactly the same thing to you as I did.”
Sixteen
“Who do you think you are — Miss Marple?" Shelley demanded when they got back in the car. She was obviously torn between anger and amusement.
“Well, somebody has to get to the bottom of this, and I don't have much faith in our friend Detective VanDyne, do you?"
“It is his job, you know."
“I know that, and he's probably pretty good at it, but this has to do with private things. Do you think anybody's going to tell him — a man, a cop, an outsider — what they were being blackmailed about?”
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