“Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Richie Valens in the same one," Mel added.
“Rick Nelson, Patsy Cline—"
“Interesting, but beside the point, if you don't mind my mentioning it. Did Mrs. Wagner know Fiona?"
“No, not before I took her over with me to move some boxes of stuff for the bazaar. Phyllis did mention knowing somebody who knew Fiona, but she couldn't remember who it was. To be honest. I think Phyllis was fudging the truth there. I think she'd just read about Fiona in fan magazines."
“So they'd never met?"
“No, I'm sure they hadn't. Women who have met before always at least pretend to remember each other. Neither of them did that."
“Okay. Who else did Mrs. Wagner know in Chicago?"
“Nobody that I know of. I believe the aunt she lived with in the old days died some years ago. She might know Bobby's adopted family. She told me some story about the stepmother not getting along with him, but that could just be Bobby's version. I don't know that she ever met them. Chet was apparently the one who traced him down, as a surprise to her."
“God, what a surprise. More of a shock, I'd think."
“She adored him."VanDyne stared at her.
“Incredible, but true," Jane insisted.
“Did she say anything at all that might lead you to think his adopted family had anything against her?"
“No, in fact, reading between the lines, I got the impression that they were thrilled to have him out of their hair. Of course, that could just be my interpretation of how I'd feel. Have you talked to them yet?"
“No, the father and stepmother are out of town. A vacation to Florida. Of course, with air travel being so fast and easy—" Suddenly he seemed to catch himself in the midst of gossiping with a civilian. "Thanks for your help," he said, starting to get up.
“Wait a minute!" Jane ordered. "You've asked me for a lot of information you didn't much want anyway, and you haven't told me anything. I've got some questions of my own. For a start, who called you in?"
“Bobby himself. Says he got up to go to the bathroom, glanced in her room, and saw she was dead. By the time the officers got there, he'd passed out."
“Do you think he'd do that if he was the one who killed her?"
“Who can tell? He might have been so drunk he wasn't making sense. Or he could have been so stewed that he'd forgotten that he'd killed her. Or he might have figured out that nobody else was likely to discover her for a good long time, and he'd better brazen it out."
“Maybe. Have you located Chet yet?"
“No, he's not on that island they own, and nobody seems to know where he's gone. His assistant has promised to let me know the second he's found."
“You aren't still suspecting him, are you?”
“I'd be both crazy and negligent not to. How well do you know this guy?"
“I hardly knew him at all, but I know he adored Phyllis."
“Still? Or seventeen years ago?"
“What do you mean?"
“You got the idea that he adored her from her, didn't you?" VanDyne said. "Look, if she'd come here without that obnoxious son and just talked about him, wouldn't you have formed a different sort of impression? That he was a terrific kid who loved her? Maybe it's the same with her husband."
“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.”