“Well, for one thing, she was in Chicago, right under his nose. I don't think she'd been back here since he became and adult. It would have been a lot harder to fly into the island and get out again without being noticed. But that doesn't matter. I don't think he would have killed her. I think he would have killed Bobby, or tried to. See, it's the same with Chet or John Wagner. The thing that changed in their lives was the addition of Bobby. It was when he came along that everything started to go wrong."
“How would he have known where they were?" Fiona asked. "She only saw the house yesterday afternoon and moved right in."
“But she called him from my house and invited him over."
“To your house?" Shelley exclaimed. "Would he dare?"
“Sure. He had no idea he offended me. Buthe didn't come anyway. He did go see her, but at the house next door later last night. So he knew the house—”
Shelley caught her train of thought. "She probably showed him around, and he would have known which room she was in."
“Maybe not."
“Look, Jane, half the time you're arguing that Bobby was the intended victim and half the time that he was the murderer. You can't have it both ways."
“But I want it to be one or the other," Jane admitted. "We don't know enough to guess what happened, but I'm positive Bobby had something to do with it. He's far too horrible to simply be an innocent bystander.”
Fiona's maid came into the kitchen looking rattled. "Excuse me, Mrs. Howard, but there's a man to see you. A policeman."
“Thank you, Celia. Don't be alarmed. He's just making inquiries about what happened next door last night. He may want to talk to you, too."
“I'm going home," Jane said. "He'll have a fit if he finds me here. Thanks for the tea, Fiona.”
She and Shelley slipped out the back door. "Is that your Detective VanDyne calling on Fiona?" Shelley asked as they walked away.
“My VanDyne?" Jane scoffed. But she did like the sound of that phrase.
Thirteen
For once, Jane was happy to come back home to a messy house; it gave her something to do. She fed the pets, then cleaned up the rubble the kids always left in their mad dash to school. The milk lake was the worst part. Willard had run through it and left sticky tracks all over the kitchen. She mopped it up and ran down to the basement to wash the towel she'd thrown in to soak up the worst. It was one of her best towels, and she noted with irritation that it was beginning to fray along one edge.
Funny how linens and light bulbs all seemed to give up at the same time, no matter when they were purchased. She'd have to buy more towels—a thought which led her to consider her financial status. These plush beauties had been purchased when Steve was alive and bringing home money weekly. Now she got a check once a month from her mother-in-law which represented Steve's share of the Jeffry family pharmacies' profits. There was also the interest on the CDs that she had put Steve's life insurance money into. But she had always put that back into the kids' college accounts. Sometime soonshe would have to give some serious thought to getting a job.
An old aunt of hers had given her advice the day after Steve's death which she had followed just because Aunt May was so forceful and certain of herself. Aunt May had said the one thing a new widow must do is absolutely nothing. Make no changes, no unnecessary decisions for a full year. It had been good advice, keeping Jane from acting on all the crazy notions that had occurred to her in those first weeks, but soon the year of grace would be over.
Would Chet Wagner make impulsive changes and decisions? she wondered as she closed the lid of the washing machine. Was "do nothing" the sort of advice a successful businessman could or should follow? Of course, most men don't have the things that keep their feet on the ground like most women do when death leaves holes in the middle of their lives. A woman still had wash to do, meals to cook, pets and children to look after. Grief simply couldn't go full throttle when you're cleaning burnt oatmeal off the bottom of a pan. Most women had friends to rally around, too. She'd seen a television play once in which an old lady said of a girl in trouble, "She probably went home to her mother. Women turn to women in time of trouble.”
Poor Chet. Men didn't seem to turn to other men very often in time of trouble. Did he have a friend to turn to? He certainly couldn't count on his son John for sympathy and support. John Wagner wasn't the nurturing sort. Jane had never met the other son; perhaps he was a nicer person. Of course, Chet had tons of people who worked for him. Those who were bright and ambitious would at least pretend sympathy and look for opportunities to help him. Maybe that would be enough.
Jane came back upstairs and went to work on tidying up the living room, getting ready for more Christmas decorations. She picked up things the kids had left and took them up to dump in their rooms. She plumped cushions, halfheartedly ran a dust cloth over the major flat surfaces, and hauled the recalcitrant vacuum cleaner out of the front hall closet. But on her first swoop with it, she sucked up a penny that crashed around hideously for a second before the machine moaned to a smelly stop. "Damn!" she exclaimed, unplugging the monster and flipping it over onto its back to operate.
As she knelt, she caught a glimpse of white under the nearest chair. It was one of Phyllis's knitting bags. Jane crawled over, pulled it out, and peered in the top. It was Bobby's crimson sweater. Never go be completed. Jane pulled out a sleeve and looked at the elaborate cable pattern, done apparently on size two or three needles. She could feel the sharp-cornered edge of a knitting book in the bag. Maybe she could finish the sweater for Phyllis. It seemed a fitting tribute, especially given how difficult it would be for an amateur like Jane. But what would she do with it, if and when she ever finished? Give it to Bobby, as Phyllis had intended? God, no! The day would never dawn that Jane would so much as slip a stitch for Bobby Bryant.
She shoved the sweater sleeve back into the plastic bag, wondering what to do with it, whenthere was a knock on the door. Willard, naturally, went quite mad. As he went flying by, barking like there was a mob of cossacks about to break down the doors, Jane reached out and grabbed his collar and nearly jerked both of them right off their feet. Shoving him down the basement steps, she went to the front door and discovered Mel VanDyne. Of course! He would visit when there was a dead vacuum cleaner with its guts spilling out in the middle of the living room.
“Come in. Let's sit in the kitchen," she said. "Have you learned anything yet?"
“Nothing worthwhile. I've been interviewing neighbors. I hope you'll tell me what they wouldn't themselves."
“You think a neighbor killed her?"
“No, I don't. According to you and Mrs. Howard, Mrs. Wagner just flitted in and bought the house yesterday. Nobody'd ever heard of her or met her before. It seems unlikely that anybody could develop a murderous hatred of her in such a short time. Still, I need to check it out.”
Jane had poured them coffee and sat down across the table from him. At least she'd cleaned up the milk lake and cleared the crumbs. He wouldn't go away with greasy elbows from sitting at her table. If he wasn't impressed by her neatness, at least he wouldn't be having a little chat with the Board of Health about her. "I get it. This is a perfectly pointless line of inquiry, so it's okay to talk to me about it.”
He grinned over the top of his coffee cup. Oh, those teeth! "Tell me about the Howards and Mr. Finch anyway."
“Tell me what you think of them first."
“All right. Mrs. Howard is a nice Englishwoman, and Mr. Finch is a not very nice American. There's also a house behind on the next street, but the people are out of town."
“The neighbors think Mr. Finch poisons dogs and cats that come in his yard."
“I know. The local police have a fat file of complaints but no proof. Mrs. Wagner didn't know him, did she?"
“Of course not. How would she? She only lived in the house for a few hours. When did Phyllis die?"
“Don't know yet. The coroner's first guess was between midnight and four. Her son says she spoke to him when he came in, but he has no idea when that was. Thinks it was around one. That's when Mrs. Howard says she heard a voice or voices. Do you know this Finch character?"
“No. We've got a nodding acquaintance, as my mother would say. I see him working on his lawn, which is sacrosanct. And I pass him in the aisles of the grocery store. My kids are afraid of him, but that's probably because he's the neighborhood ogre. He's yelled at them a time or two for cutting across the corner of the yard. In fact, he called me once when Mike was little to tell me what a bad mannered child he was. I never knew quite what it was about."
“You think he's a killer type?"
“Of dogs and cats, yes. But unless Phyllis ran across his precious lawn with a Rototiller, I can't imagine why he'd have the least interest in her, let alone a desire to kill her."
“Fair enough. When I went over to talk to him, he tried to make me take off my shoes before I could come into the house. My impression is that murder is altogether too messy an activity for him. What about Mrs. Howard?"
“Fiona? You know who she is, don't you? She's Richie Divine's widow.”
VanDyne set his coffee cup down with a clatter. "You're kidding! The Richie Divine? Of course—Fiona Divine. I should have recognized the name Fiona."
“I think she'd be pleased that you didn't.”
“I had a lot of interest in his death. My sister was visiting friends in Seattle and went to his last concert. She was at some sort of slumber party when she heard the radio bulletin that his plane had crashed in the Pacific on the way to his next concert. Called home in the middle of the night and woke the whole family up to tell us. I always thought there was something suspicious about it, even then."
“Why? Tragic, yes. But suspicious?"
“Don't you remember? He'd gotten into some kind of flap with organized crime—they were skimming profits from his tours. He actually testified against his own business manager, who then ratted on everybody he knew."
“I had forgotten that. You mean that the mob had something to do with his plane going down?"
“There wasn't any proof that I know of. But the plane didn't just run out of gas and fall into the ocean. It blew up in midair first. They never found enough bits of the plane or the passengers—to reconstruct what happened."
“Oh, ugh. I was happier not knowing that.”
“Sorry."