Shelley stopped at the corner and looked at her for a long moment before driving on. "Like Suzie did, huh?"
“I'll admit I struck out on that one. But I've learned a valuable lesson, and I never for a mo‑ ment suspected Suzie anyway. It was a sort of trial run, you see."
“Oh, sure. If you don't suspect her, who do you suspect?"
“Actually, I think it may have been Robbie Jones." She glanced at Shelley. "You do too, don't you?”
Shelley cleared her face of the slight smile that had been starting at the corners of her mouth. "That's not fair of either of us, Jane. She's just homely and dull. That's no reason to suspect her of murder, for God's sake."
“Shelley, if anybody's going to be suspected, it might as well be her — and I'm not going by her looks. The fact is, she's more the type than any of us. She's a superb organizer. A cold-blooded organizer, you might say. And murdering that cleaning lady took a cool head and good planning. Also, I keep thinking of that time we were having some kind of meeting and somebody mentioned how odd it was that her daughter didn't have her beautiful red hair. Remember?"
“Vaguely. She said something about her taking after her father. So what?"
“Then Suzie said she saw no resemblance to Harry, and Robbie said, no, her daughter's father was her first husband. Not the daughter's husband, Robbie's."
“Oh, yes, I remember there was a stir about that later. Nobody knew she'd been married before, and Suzie was carrying on about how she couldn't find a man to marry and Robbie had found two and it proved life wasn't fair."
“Right. But remember how Robbie clammedup after that, and nobody could get her to say another word about the first husband?"
“Yes, but none of that means a damn thing. We know lots of people who made a bad first marriage and just don't like to talk about it. Before I met Paul, I was engaged to a man once that I'd sooner die than admit I knew. I could have married him, and I certainly wouldn't want to talk about it. So what?"
“The marriage isn't what matters here, it's her secretiveness."
“Pretty thin, Jane."
“I know it is. But Shelley, think about it. What do we know about her? Almost nothing. Most of our friends have mentioned all sorts of things about their past at one time or another, but except for that one time, what has Robbie ever said about her life?"
“Nothing that I can remember, but when have we expressed an interest? Be honest, Jane. I've always assumed that she's always been as dull as she is now and there was nothing worth asking about or even listening to. That's our fault, not hers.”
Jane lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and finally said, "I know you're right. But I still think if any of us could have done it, it would be her."
“So do I, frankly. But that isn't proof of anything."
“Shelley, you're forgetting. We don't need proof. We just need to figure it out and Detective VanDyne can find the proof. That's his part of the job."
“I think the whole problem is his job."
“In theory, yes. But the fact is, he doesn't seem to be in any great hurry to sort this out, and in the meantime, your kids are growing up with your sister."
“I called her last night and offered to send along the adoption papers," Shelley said. "Yes, you're right. I'm the one who wants this solved soon. It's VanDyne's job, but it's my life that's being imposed upon. So, do we go after Robbie next?"
“Might as well try. Do you suppose she's home?"
“You never know. She works a very erratic schedule at that mental hospital. I hope you've got some improved technique of questioning in mind."
“I certainly do.”
Robbie did turn out to be home, but barely. "Oh, hello," she said at the door, taking her dish. "Will you come in?" She checked her watch. "I'm on my way to work, but I don't have to leave for nine minutes. Shelley, I wanted to talk to you. I'm concerned about this planning committee. We're supposed to report to the school board on our plans for the playground the end of next week, and without having had a single meeting — I know this awful death has been a great shock, but we really should be getting on with things."
“I hadn't even thought about it. You're right, of course. I'll set up another time."
“We could have the meeting here, if you'd prefer," Robbie said, but it was a halfhearted offer. Her house was one of the dozen or so scattered through the neighborhood that predated the subdivision by some twenty or thirty years. Most were big, sprawling farm homes. Others, like Robbie's, were old and small with little, oddly angled rooms. It wasn't a good place for meetings. Nor was Robbie a born hostess. Her house was uncomfortably clean, always reeking of Clorox and Lysol.
“Thanks for offering, Robbie, but I don't mind having it," Shelley said. "In a day or two I hope this terrible mess about the cleaning lady will be taken care of and I'll get back to normal."
“Oh, do they have the person who did it?”
Jane studied her for some sign of her thoughts. But that big, lantern-jawed face showed nothing but mild, impersonal interest.
“Not exactly," Shelley said, and glanced at Jane with an expression that clearly meant, "Take it away, Jane."
“You see, Robbie, it seems to have to do with blackmail," Jane said. "And what we're wondering is, what was Edith blackmailing you about?" She tried to make it sound as if they were all victims in this together.
Robbie's face grew suddenly pale, and Jane noticed for the first time that she had freckles. She turned her back on them, her shoulders rigid.
“Robbie, you can tell us," Jane said. Her heart was pounding; Robbie hadn't denied it. Was there about to be a shocking revelation, and did she really want to hear it?
“Robbie…?" Shelley prodded.
She whirled back around, her skin mottled in ugly red patches. "It's none of your business!" Shelley was the first to break the tense silence.
“Robbie, I'm sorry, but it is. A perfectly innocent woman was strangled to death in my house.”
“I didn't do it!”
Shelley took her hand, a clenched fist that didn't relax. "I don't imagine you did, Robbie. But I still need to know all I can find out." She was speaking very softly and soothingly. But Robbie continued to glare at her, her face stiff and hostile.
Jane was feeling sick. Was Shelley holding the very hand that had looped the vacuum cleaner cord around poor Ramona Thurgood's throat and twisted and twisted? Had they now set themselves up as the next victims? That was one aspect of this snooping that hadn't occurred to her, but now came with a force that left her nearly breathless.
“I'm not talking to you any more about this. Get out!" Robbie's command was icy.
“Yes, of course," Shelley said. She'd paled a bit too, and Jane suspected Shelley's thoughts mirrored her own: In their enthusiasm to solve the mystery, what had they stupidly unleashed?
They went to the door, scuttling sideways like frightened crabs, half-afraid to turn their backs on her.
“Get out! Get out!" she screamed as they slipped through the front door and out into the cool air.
They all but ran to the car. Shelley's hands were shaking so badly she could hardly get the key in the ignition. Neither said a word until they were back in Shelley's driveway. "Come to my house," Jane said.
They went in. There was no sign of Willarduntil he recognized their voices and came slinking in from the dining room cravenly wagging his tail. Some watchdog! Jane thought. Shelley sat down at the kitchen table and put the heels of her hands to her eyes.
“Jane, we just did something terrible."
“I know," Jane said, surprised to find that her voice was trembling.
“If Robbie Jones didn't kill Ramona, we've insulted and embarrassed a friend, probably beyond repair. If she did, it's worse. We've alerted her that we're on to her and — oh, God, Jane! What have we done?”