“I'm the teacher. Mrs. Jeffry and I were here a while ago at dinner," Missy said. "May we come in?"
“Yes. But misses not here." She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and seemed slightly unbalanced by the action. She steadied herself against the doorframe for a moment, then stood aside.
They followed her into the front hall. "I'm afraid we have bad news," Missy said. "Mrs. Pryce became ill during class—"
“Yes, yes. I pick her up."
“No, you don't have to pick her up. She's been taken to the hospital—"
“Keys. Car keys. Don't know where—the lawn.
Yes. Water the lawn—storm coming," she said, then lapsed into babbling in a foreign language.
Mel was looking a question at Missy and Jane. "Is she crazy?" he seemed to be asking.
“—and then we go to market," the maid said. She staggered, and Jane grabbed her to keep her from falling.
“Mel, there's something wrong. This is how Mrs. Pryce was acting—sensitive to light, raving, off balance.”
The woman was leaning against the doorframe, clutching at her chest.
“Where's the phone?" Mel demanded.
Missy tried to calm the maid down while Mel and Jane searched for a phone. When he found it, he dialed quickly, identified himself, and gave Mrs. Pryce's address. "Send an ambulance and seal off the city hall. I think it may be a crime scene.”
He hung up and looked at Jane, who was helping Missy get the maid to sit down on a settee in the front hall. "You sure are a fun date," he said wryly.
8
Missy came by at ten the next morning. Jane had been up since eight but still felt blurry. It had been a late night.
“Can you stand company?" Missy said. She was looking a little haggard, too.
“Sure. Come in. Want some iced tea?"
“Only if you throw it in my face to wake me up." "Were you up late, too?"
“There were policemen questioning me until nearly two, then I couldn't get to sleep. Gee, it's quiet. Where is everybody else?"
“Katie's still in bed, and my mother's gone to visit an old friend in Evanston. I couldn't sleep last night either. Then when I finally dropped off, Mel called around four to let me know that the maid—her name's Maria Espinoza, by the way—is probably going to recover. They pumped her stomach right away on the assumption that it might have been something they both ate."
“And what did they find?"
“I don't know. Mel says the pathology people say the symptoms could point to any number of poisons. But they won't know until they've done an autopsy on Mrs. Pryce and analyzed Maria's stomach contents. Ugh! Imagine doing that for a living."
“So that's why they kept asking me about the dinner."
“I guess so. The man who interviewed me wanted to know who'd brought what."
“I assume they're considering it a deliberate poisoning?" Missy asked.
“I don't know what else it could be. I mean, if a poison had accidentally been in any of the dishes, more than two people would have gotten sick. We were all pretty polite about trying a little of everything. And if it had been some weird allergic reaction, it probably would have affected only one person. But it's crazy anyway."
“What do you mean?"
“Just that she was a first-class bitch, but so are lots of people, and they don't get killed. If this was poisoning and it was deliberate, it means one of the people in the class might have done it, and that's unbelievable."
“Unlikely, I'll grant," Missy said. "I think I will take you up on that tea offer, if you don't mind."
“Okay. Let's take them outside while it's still nice. It's supposed to be in the nineties later today.”
It was already warm, but still just barely pleasant outdoors. There had been a little rain overnight, and the garden looked refreshed. Willard came out with them for a little romp in the vegetables before he got on with the doggy business of barking at birds.
“It's more than just unlikely that it was someone in class," Jane continued as they settled themselves under the patio umbrella. She yelled at Willard, who reluctantly came back and flopped down under her chair. "Killing somebody must be a huge thing in a person's life. If you were given to murdering peoplejust because they were annoying as hell, you'd give in to the urge early in life, wouldn't you?"
“I'm not sure I follow this," Missy said.
“Well, forgive my frankness, but nobody in the class, including us, is exactly a spring chicken. And I think we can assume that none of us has ever killed anybody before."
“Not to my recollection. Except maybe Bob Neufield," Missy said, pushing her hair back out of her eyes and fishing in her purse for her sunglasses.
“Why him in particular?"
“Just because I assume from his manner that he was in the military or law enforcement or one of those immaculately ironed professions. The man has ramrod posture, and his clothes never have so much as a wrinkle. So if he were military, he might have killed someone in war. He's probably old enough to have been in Korea and Vietnam."
“I see what you mean," Jane said. "Did you hear Mrs. Pryce yell something at him about serving his country?"
“Yes. Suggesting that he was a pansy who got thrown out on his ear. Poor guy. He'd been about the only one who'd escaped her nasty tongue, and then she caught him at the end."
“Do you suppose it's true?" Jane asked. "Normally I wouldn't give a damn, but under the circumstances, maybe it's important. Did you tell the police about her saying that?"
“I don't know if it's true, and no, I didn't tell the police. I didn't remember it until now. Listen, Jane, I don't mean to sound callous—I'm truly concerned about this, but I actually came to talk to you about something else, and I don't want it to get lost in this mess. I want to talk to you about your Priscilla project."
“Oh, yes?" Had it suddenly gotten hotter or was it just her nerves coming to life? Missy looked at her over the top of her sunglasses. "Yes. Let me ask you something—are you having fun doing this or are you just being dutiful about class?"
“I'm having fun. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit how much fun it is ..." Jane paused. "No, that's not entirely accurate. I'm enjoying it, but mostly I'm obsessing on it. I guess with two of my kids gone, I need another outlet for that maternal urge to try to run somebody's life. The nice thing about Priscilla is that she has to do what I say. I wouldn't tell this to anybody but you, but even as upset as I was last night, I sat down for a half an hour or so and scribbled a few notes on things I'd thought of for Priscilla to say and do. It's weird, though. I'm not so sure she'll be willing to say and do them—”
Missy nodded. "That's what I'd hoped—and was half-afraid—you'd say. Jane, I don't want to shock you, but I think you're coming down with a book. I know the signs."
“Coming down ... ? You mean writing a book?" Jane scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to write a whole book."
“You write it one page at a time. Just like you're doing."
“No, I'd never consider it. Really.”
This whole concept was so revolutionary it almost took her breath away. Could ordinary, real people write books? Missy did. Wow! For a minute it was as if Mrs. Pryce had never existed, much less gotten herself murdered.