Grime and Punishment jj-1

by Jill Churchill

  Jane pulled her hand away slowly and got up. Looking as stricken as Jane felt, Shelley was on her feet instantly, but Jane put out her hand in a mute gesture to hold her off. "Oh, Jane!" she said, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry!”

  Joyce looked from Jane to Shelley and back again. Comprehension began to dawn. "What — what is happening? Oh, God! You didn't know!" She put her head on the table and began to sob. "My g-g-goddamn big m-m-mouth! Now I've m-m-made it worse!”

  Picking up her purse, Jane went to the door to the garage like a sleepwalker.

  “Wait, I'll come with you!" Shelley cried. "No! Thank you, but I'd rather just have a little time to myself," Jane said. Part of her rec‑ ognized and complimented herself on how calm and well behaved she was being.

  She pulled up the garage door, got in the car, buckled her seat belt, checked the rearview mirror, and backed out carefully. She drove away, leaving Joyce Greenway crying at her kitchen table.

  Eighteen;;• The shopping center was two miles from Jane's house. When she and Steve had first moved into their home, the spot was an open field. A few years later the land had been cleared, graded, and "improved" by the building of a gigantic complex of shops, restaurants, and movie theaters. Adjacent property had been purchased for possible expansion, but had never been put to use. The shopping center parking lot, far larger than needed, still backed up to what had once been a Christmas tree farm.

  It was here that Jane and Steve had come years ago on a frigid, windy Sunday with Mike and Katie, both of them dressed in quilted snowsuits that made them look like brightly colored Pillsbury Doughboys. They had carefully dug up a small fir tree that sat in the living room in a bucket for the holidays and then went outdoors. It now shaded the patio from the afternoon sun. It, like the children, had grown beyond recognition.

  The trees on the farm had been neglected. Those nearest the parking lot had grown brown and dingy from traffic fumes. Many had died, others were stunted and twisted. A stand near the north end had been wiped out by a fire started by lightning the previous spring. Scattered stumps showed where a few had been cut. But those remaining were towering now, and made dark, secret places. Today, the abandoned Christmas tree farm looked as desolate as Jane felt.

  She stopped the car at the very end of the shopping center lot. There was nothing near her but cracked asphalt, crumbling curbing, and a rusted lamp standard that someone had backed into and bent. They didn't even paint parking lines this far from the shops. She turned off the engine and stared at the trees, trying to recapture the simple and happy life of that December day, when the children were little and she didn't suspect that Steve would ever stop loving her.

  Damn him to hell!

  She let herself topple over sideways, her face resting on the upholstery fabric. Tears boiled over, and she wrapped her arms around her head, sobbing. For a long time she had no thoughts, no words, just a heart-constricting agony fighting to get out. She cried until she was exhausted.

  It had all happened so long ago. She was well along the road of getting over it. Or had been, until a few minutes ago. Why should this information have been so devastating?

  Because she'd always assumed it was someone from work: some cute sales rep from one of the drug firms — they were using a lot more women these days — or a customer, or a beautiful young pharmaceutical graduate. Somebodysafe and anonymous. She'd never even dreamed the woman he'd left her for was someone she knew. A friend! Well, not much of a friend, as it appeared now.

  All this time it had been Joyce Greenway. A woman like herself. Like herself. That was the painful part, not even the fact that they knew each other.

  That frosting job of Joyce's certainly concealed the same occasional gray hairs Jane had. The tummy tucks couldn't erase stretch marks. Dam-mit! Joyce's hormones were running down at a rate equal to everybody else's. Joyce drove the same teenage children in car pools, she had the same cleaning lady, the same civic committees and concerns, the same orthodontist for the kids. The times they'd sat around that waiting room together while braces were being tightened!

  It hadn't hurt as much before — not that Jane had known there were degrees of pain in such a rejection — thinking she'd lost him to someone young and free-spirited. Male menopause, Shelley called it. The mad, male urge to prove fading virility with a young woman when his wife was showing her years, and so was he. That wasn't fair, but it was vaguely understandable. Jane had pictured the woman as different from her in every possible way. Young, firm-bodied, with no repressions whatsoever. No responsibilities beyond pleasure. She'd told herself, No wonder I lost him to someone like that. I couldn't compete with youth.

  But Joyce—!

  Why Joyce? What in the world did she have to offer that Jane didn't? Aside from a better figure, prettier hair, a softer voice, a more expensive wardrobe?

  And why hadn't she suspected? Of course, Joyce was a fine actress. She'd been trained to convincingly present another persona on the stage, and could apparently use that skill off the stage as well. Naturally she'd been able to conceal her feelings. Acting the neutral, nonsexual, nonthreatening neighbor at block parties and PTA functions. Had she and Steve sneaked off for a quick grope behind the cotton candy machine at the junior high carnival? Had their hands touched while turning hamburgers on the grill? Had they exchanged sultry looks across the small desks on back-to-school nights at the grade school? That time he went to help her with a flat tire — had he been fumbling around with her blouse buttons instead of the car jack?

  She heard a car engine approaching and sat up, furiously wiping her eyes.

  The minivan cast a shadow Jane recognized. Shelley opened the passenger door of Jane's station wagon. "May I come in?"

  “If you don't mind being seen with a woman whose mascara is all over her chin."

  “You aren't wearing mascara. You can't fool me." She got in and closed the door. "For whatever it's worth, Joyce looks worse than you do. Here." Shelley had unearthed a travel pack of tissues from her purse and handed them to Jane. "Mop up, honey. Got any car pools you want me to pick up this afternoon? It's almost that time."

  “No, thanks, I'm off today. Did you get her out of my house?”

  “Yes. She actually got so hysterical I had to slap her. Just like in the movies. I've always wanted to do that, but I never thought I'd enjoy it so much.”

  Jane smiled weakly. "I wish I'd had the chance. Shelley, the truth — did you know before?”

  Shelley hitched herself around sideways and looked at Jane with a horrified expression. "Good God! No, of course not. Do you think I would have let that happen to you? I'd have hated telling you, but I'd have done it. Even if I only suspected."

  “How did you find me here?"

  “I just guessed."

  “You did not. You're a terrible liar."

  “No, I knew you came here a lot last winter. I saw your car a couple of times when I came to the shopping center."

  “This was a Christmas tree farm. That fir by my patio came from here. Why would he want her? Her?"

  “I can't imagine and neither should you. It was insanity.

  “Male menopause.But why somebody just as old and busy and ordinary as me? I thought it was some nubile young thing who wore crotchless panties every day and still had her breasts up under her chin, where ours started out."

  “Madness, Jane. You can't explain it. Nobody can."

  “Now that I think about it, I wonder why she considered it. Steve wasn't such a noticeable treasure. He wasn't any better-looking than her husband, and he certainly didn't have as much money. I have the feeling the Greenways are rolling in it."

  “Maybe she just wanted the attention," Shelley said. "You know her husband never has time for anything with her or the family. Steve was good about that.”

  Jane tilted her head back so the tears wouldn't run down her face. "He was. That he was.”

  After a long moment, Shelley said, "You got her off the hook with Edith, you know. That's why she was
blackmailing her — threatening to tell you about her and Steve. You've done the bitch a favor.”

  Jane started chuckling, then laughing. Shelley joined her. Finally, when they'd both calmed down a bit, Shelley said, "I don't suppose she'd have killed the woman to keep it from you.”

  Jane looked perplexed. "'That was how it started, wasn't it? I'd completely forgotten about the murder. I don't suppose she would have killed Edith. But, Shelley, I don't care anymore. You were right when you said it was the job of the police to figure it out. I'm not doing any more snooping. God only knows what else I might find out!"

  “Couldn't be anything much worse. Not that I'm encouraging you to pry into any more secrets. The next one might be something that would drive me to this parking lot. Jane, there is something you need to think about, though. How are you going to resolve this?"

  “With Joyce? What's to resolve? It's over. Steve's dead and neither of us have him. God! No wonder she's been so damned sweet andconcerned about how I'm getting along without him! It was sheer guilty conscience. And remember what a mess she was at his funeral?"

  “Yes, we talked about it. How she was a better friend of yours than we knew — to be so upset on your behalf. It wasn't you she was sorry for. It was herself!"

  “Do you suppose her husband suspects?"

  “Probably not. He might not care if he did. For what comfort it might be, that must have crossed her mind as well. But, Jane, to get back to what I was trying to say. You've got to think out what your attitude toward her is going to be."

  “I don't understand."

  “Well, if you're going to make a point of hating her in a public way — which I wouldn't blame you for — people are going to wonder why."

  “So what? I don't care if they know she's a husband-stealing slut."

  “I'm not so sure. It's fine to make her look as bad as she is, but think what it'll make you look like.”

  Jane stared at the ragged Christmas trees. A crow had landed on the top of one and was swaying back and forth drunkenly. "Do you have any cigarettes along?"

  “I brought yours. Here.”

  Jane lit a cigarette, coughed, and rolled down the car window to throw it out. "That tastes awful. I see what you mean about Joyce. She'd look like trash, which she is, but I'd look pitiful, like just what I am — a woman who couldn't keep her husband's interest and lost him to a neighbor."

  “Right. It's sort of noble and tragic and romantic to be a widow. At least no one blames you for it or thinks less of you. But, a deserted wife? You know how people are. They'd start wondering what Joyce had that you didn't."

  “That's what I'm wondering too."

  “Oh, Jane! Don't say that. You need to start getting out in the world a bit more. Meeting men who can reassure you of all your good qualities that Steve had gotten too familiar with to appreciate.”

  Jane scrubbed at her damp face with the crumpled tissue. "That's nice of you to say. But—" She glanced at her watch. "Where I need to get now is home. The kids'll be there in a few minutes and they'll wonder where I am. I like to be home when they get there."

  “What are you going to do about Joyce?"

  “Nothing.Yet. I'm just going to avoid her and let her stew in her own juices while I make up my mind."

  “That's the way, Jane. You know, right now, I think she's even more miserable than you are.”

  “I hope so. God, I hope so!"

  “Want me to drive you home?"

  “Thanks. I'm fine now. No, I'm no such thing. But I can drive. I want to clean up my face before the kids see me. I don't want them to think anything is wrong.”

  Shelley took her hand, patted it, then got out of the car and stood waving as she drove away. Jane hurried home, feeling a little better. Not happier, but somehow purged. She parked and dashed into the house. The phone was ringing, but she ignored it and ran upstairs. She flung her purse toward the bed as she dashed into the bathroom. She washed her face in warm water, then sponged her red eyes with cold. Carefully, she put on fresh make-up and combed her hair. Studying herself in the mirror, she said, "Not too bad.”

  She went back into the bedroom and picked up her purse. An object in the middle of the bed caught her eye. A piece of paper with something on top. She stepped around the side of the bed to reach for it, then drew her hand back with a cry.

  The note said, "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”

  The new paring knife was driven through the paper and into the mattress.

  Nineteen

  Jane opened her lingerie drawer and threw an armload of underwear over the paring knife and note so that the children wouldn't see it if they came in. It would look like she'd been sorting laundry. Then she closed the bedroom door.

  They'd be here any minute. Panic rose in her throat like a bubble. After taking a few long breaths, she dialed Shelley's number, but it rang six times without an answer. Jane hung up when Katie came to the door.

  “What are you doing with your door shut, Mom?"

  “Oh, was it shut?" Jane said, forcing a smile that made her lips hurt.

  “Mom, you're acting weird. Jenny's mom is waiting. If it's okay with you, she said Jenny and I could go with her to watch her get her hair frosted. Okay? I'll be back in time for dinner, and I don't have any homework. How do you think I'd look with my hair frosted?”

  Jane reached for her purse and took out a twenty-dollar bill. "Here, why don't you treat Jenny and her mom to dinner at the mall?"

  “Huh?" Katie stared at the money as if itmight bite. "You're giving me this and I didn't even ask?"

  “Yes, now go. Go."

  “Oh-kay!”

  Jane closed the bedroom door again and followed Katie downstairs. Mike was just coming in. He dumped his backpack full of books on top of Katie's on the kitchen floor. "Listen, Mom, a bunch of the guys asked me to play a little basketball and go for pizza. Do you care?"

  “No, that's fine.”

  He had his mouth open, ready to launch into an argument on behalf of his plans. "Hey, you sick or something? You look kinda pale."

  “Just tired," she said.

  “Hey, in band this morning, Old Bellhaven started having a big fit 'cause nobody was marching in time, so he makes us go in the band room and sits us all down. He's hopping around and yelling his head off like he does, and he goes up to the board and writes these huge letters P — R—I — D—E, see? And he says, 'I want you all to have some of this!' And he bangs his fist on the board. Old Scott's sitting back there, tapping away with the sticks and so he stands up and says, "Thanks, Mr. Bellhaven, I'll take the D.' “

  Jane forced a smile.

  “Mom, what's wrong? You usually like Scott stories.”

  She wanted to hug him and assure him that she loved Scott stories and loved him more and wouldn't let anything happen to him. But instead she punched him on the arm and said, "Couldn't sleep last night, that's all. Tell me again tomorrow when I'm awake and I'll laugh. I promise. Now get along to your basketball game.”

  Unlike Joyce Greenway, she was a rotten actress. Mike headed for the door, then paused. "Are you really sure it's okay if I go?"

  “Positive.”

  Two down, one remaining.

  Shelley drove up as Mike was leaving on his bike. Jane ran out to meet her. She could see the woman who drove Todd's car pool on Mondays coming down the street. "Shelley, go up to my bedroom and carefully lift the underwear off the bed. I've got to get rid of Todd. I don't want the kids to know.”

  Shelley got out of the minivan. "Don't want them to know what?"

  “You'll see. Don't touch anything but the underwear.”

  Shelley went inside. Jane waited for the gray Volkswagen to pull in the drive. Todd tumbled out, wrestling with Elliot Wallenberg. "Mom, can Elliot stay here and play soldiers?"

  “Honey, I've got a headache. Why don't you both go play soldiers at Elliot's instead?”

  That was agreeable to them and, giggling, they piled back into the car. Fortunately, the Monday dri
ver was a woman Jane hardly knew, a brand-new addition to the neighborhood, and she was spared having to make pleasant conversation. By the time Jane got back to the house, Shelley was standing at the door. She had one hand over her mouth as if physically stopping a scream.

  “Have you called the police?”

  Jane came inside and watched out the window to make sure the gray Rabbit hadn't turned back for any reason. "Not yet. I didn't want the kids to know. I'll call now. Do you have that number for Detective VanDyne? I don't know what I've done with it."

  “I've got it at home. Wait, isn't that it on the pad next to the phone?"

  “Yes. I wonder if whoever did this noticed that I keep his number handy for constant communication?" She dialed. "Detective VanDyne, this is Jane Jeffry. I need you to come right over. Someone has stabbed my bed. I mean, well — come over and you'll see what I mean. No, wait! No sirens. Please don't come with sirens or police cars.”

  She hung up before he could ask her any questions, then went into the living room and flung herself down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Shelley plopped down in a most unShelleylike manner in the chair across from her.

  “If I kept a diary, I could have a whole month's worth for this one day. It will live in my memory forever, unfortunately."

  “For heaven's sake, Jane, don't go on about diaries. Tell me about that knife in your bed!"

  “There's nothing to tell you. It was there like that when I came home. I saw it and threw some clothes over it, and got to work trying to find you and get the kids safely out of the house without alarming them."

  “Who put it there?"

  “Shelley! That's a dumb question. All I know is it's there. Could Joyce have done it before you got her out?"

  “No, she was all but clinging to me the whole time. I had to pry her fingers off my arm to get her into her car."