Jane thought for a long moment. "That's hard to say. I'm certain he held Bobby to blame for the circumstances which brought about her death, but to be honest, I think he'd have mauled him on the spot regardless of witnesses if he'd thought Bobby actually killed her. He was furious, but it was Chet himself who kept John from attacking Bobby."
“Did John Wagner think Bobby was responsible for her death? Is that why he tried to attack Bobby?"
“No, it was because Bobby said Chet was going to be blamed. I think he was outraged on his father's behalf, and of course Bobby had hit on his worst fear. Bobby was being absolutely revolting."
“Hmmm. Tell me again about this will business. When I inquired, Mr. Wagner said his will and his wife's were with a lawyer on the island, and he authorized us to request a photocopy. It should be here today. He seemed quite cool about it. Of course, that was before Bobby dropped his bombshell."
“But if there was another more recent will, the earlier one wouldn't be valid anyway. Actually, I'm not at all sure it wasn't all bluff, just to further insult Chet. The only convincing part of it was that he said she came out of the lawyer's office with a 'blue folder thing' she was putting in her purse. That sounded true, or at least possible. I don't think he had the wit or imagination to make up convincing little details like 'blue' and 'folder.' He'd have just said 'papers' if he was making it up, I think. I knew a girl in school who was a really good liar, and she got away with it because there were always all kinds of tiny, vivid, believable details in her stories. You bought the details, and before you realized it, you'd bought the whole story."
“I think that's characteristic," Mel said shortly.
Jane realized she'd been wandering off the main point again, a habit that annoyed him. "However, there wasn't a will or anything that looked like one in her things," she continued. "We went through everything—not snooping—well, yes, snooping—and the only paperwork was in a needlepointed case. One envelope in there contained memorabilia. Family pictures, high school yearbook, birth certificates, that sortof thing. The other envelope was all craft stuff. Patterns, order forms from yarn shops."
“Yes, I saw that."
“I thought you probably had. Her purse, too?"
“Yes. There wasn't anything incriminating in it. If there actually had been a will and she'd had it in her purse in New York, where could it have gone? Was it a direct flight, or did they go someplace else on the way here?"
“I believe it was direct. She could have put it in a safe deposit box there or mailed it to someone."
“She could, but why would she?”
There was another long silence before Jane said, "Hadn't we better get going? Did you mean it about driving me to the funeral, or was that just a ploy to catch me off guard so I'd burst into hysterical tears and admit to killing Bobby?"
“I've got better ploys than that. Yes, I meant it.”
Jane went up and told a very sleepy Mike that she was leaving. Once in Mel's car, she was glad—for a change—that she wasn't tall and leggy. She'd have had her knees up around her ears if she were. "What do you know about Bobby's death? Weapon, that sort of thing?" she asked him when they were under way.
“Next to nothing. He must have gotten a call or made some arrangement to meet someone there. We didn't have the phone tapped—an oversight, damn it all. He was stabbed. The weapon removed from the scene. It probably happened between one and four in the morning."
“No better clues than that?"
“Afraid not. Jane, this was too late for the morning papers, and I'm assuming nobody but the murderer knows about it yet, so I don't want you to say anything about it at the funeral.”
Jane felt deflated. "I get it. I'm an excuse for you to be there observing how everybody's behaving.”
He put his gloved hand over hers for a second. "Only partly, Jane.”
She gazed out the window. Mother always said, "Half a loaf is better than none." But this was the soggy bottom half; she wanted the crusty, buttery top half.
Twenty
If Mel VanDyne had expected emotional fire‑ works at the funeral, he was disappointed. The widower behaved with cool decorum. John Wagner stayed close to his father, looking vaguely belligerent but otherwise no more upset than any stepson who was only slightly fond of his late stepmother. Jane noticed both of them casting a quick eye over the assembly once or twice, but whether they were looking for Bobby or merely curious about who was in attendance, it was impossible to say. John sat next to his father, and on his other side there was a mousy woman Jane remembered from volleyball days, presumably the downtrodden Joannie. Beside her there was a lean, red-headed man in his thirties who leaned across Joannie and whispered to John a couple of times. Jane assumed that he was the brother from the London office.
Closest to the family were a number of muscular, stern-faced young men. Jane realized that they must be bodyguards. Of course a man of Chet's money and international standing must have them, so why did she find their presence so foreign and alarming? Other than the family and the bodyguards, the funeral was well attended by a lot of extremely well-heeled people, presumably Chet's wealthy friends who had flocked in from whatever fashionable watering holes they normally frequented. The women's clothes were magnificent, and the men all looked like aging movie stars. Jane tried to picture Phyllis socializing with these people and failed.
Next in the pecking order were the small legion of people she assumed were Chet's staff and business associates. They were identifiable by their yuppie looks and fawning demeanors.
There wasn't a tear in the crowd. If anyone genuinely grieved for Phyllis—besides Chet—they were keeping it well hidden. Jane sat listening to the bland service, obviously conducted for a woman none of them knew well, and tried to find a feeling of true loss somewhere in her own heart. All she found was guilt.
The only interesting part of the ordeal, as far as Jane was concerned, was the fact that a couple of network news crews had gathered outside the church during the service. Chet, John, John's wife, Joannie, and the red-headed Wagner son had taken places with the minister at the door of the church in a sort of reverse receiving line. Being in the back row, Jane was among the first out. As Chet opened the door for her, a cameraman leaped into action, focusing on Jane as she came down the steps clutching Mel's arm to keep from taking a header on the icy steps.
Accustomed to cameras, VanDyne snarled, "Buzz off, boys," and shoved her unceremoniously through the crowd and into the red MG.
“Andy Warhol promised me fifteen minutesof fame," Jane mused as they roared off. "I wonder if it's all going to be in five-second intervals. Did you learn anything?"
“Not a damned thing. They didn't even seem to notice that he was missing."
“They were all probably too relieved to question a good thing."
“Jane, do you mind if I drop you off at home? I've got to get back to the coroner and see what he's found out."
“Far be it from me to keep a man from his coroner," Jane said. Did he mean he would have otherwise offered her lunch or something semidatish?
When he'd left, she called Shelley. "I saw you come back with VanDyne," her friend said. "You look smashing, by the way. Want to go someplace fancy for lunch before deterioration starts to set in?"
“I'd love it. Shelley, Bobby was murdered overnight."
“I know. Suzie told me."
“It wasn't even in the paper. How did Suzie know?"
“She had to run down to the mall early this morning to set up for a lingerie sale. It was the talk of the town. Who did it? Why there? When? Where do we send out thank-you notes?"
“Shelley, you don't mean that."
“I know I don't. But he's a hard person to feel sorry about. Was the funeral hideous? What about lunch? We can pick the whole case apart.”
Over crab quiche and white wine, Jane told Shelley what little she knew about Bobby's death. "So nothing at the scene helped them?" Shelley asked.
“Apparently not. Unless VanDyne is concealing information from me—which is entirely possible. The only reason he was being chummy with me was so he could go to the funeral 'disguised' as a friend of a friend of the family. Shelley, there is such a thing as an unsolved crime—"
“Probably many more of them than we're led to believe," Shelley agreed.
“I have this awful feeling Bobby and Phyllis are going to end up in that category. The thing that scares me is the thought that whoever killed them may not be through." She took a last bite of her quiche. "Suppose it was somebody like Mr. Finch—not that I think it was—but if he killed them for something he imagined was an insult to him, he might just go right on and bump off Fiona or somebody. On the other hand, suppose it was Chet or John Wagner—"
“Then it's a domestic matter, not likely to go any further," Shelley said firmly.
“Not necessarily. If one of them did it, they might think somebody else had a clue—maybe even us—and is a danger to their getting away with it."
“Us? What do we know?”
Jane paused. "We might know lots of things we don't realize are significant.”
Shelley waited while the waiter came and took their plates and dessert orders. When he'd gone, she crossed her arms and leaned forward. "Jane, what's on your mind?”