“Don't kid yourself. You love it," he said with a grin. It was the first time he'd smiled since he arrived.
“Was Tony at the deli opening?" Shelley asked. "It seems so long ago already that I don't remember."
“It doesn't seem like he was until after Stonecipher died and Emma called him," Mel said. "Nobody mentioned seeing him there earlier and he said he was at the office."
“That should be easy to prove," Jane said.
“Not entirely, but it doesn't really matter. Weyrich and Stonecipher were gone and the secretary had a dental appointment. He was there by himself. But as I keep reminding you, nobody killed Stonecipher."
“But somebody pushed that rack over on him," Jane said. "Surely that's significant."
“Probably, but I can't figure out how," Mel said.
“You're positive it couldn't have been an accident? Somebody bumping against it without even knowing he was there? Or a leg of it collapsing under its own weight?"
“No way. Before we realized it was a natural death, it was set back up and tested. Even our heftiest officer, pretending to stumble into it, could only rock it slightly. And that was with the shelves empty. Loaded up, it would have been even heavier and more stable. No, somebody had to give it a hard, deliberate push."
“Could a woman have had the strength?" Shelley asked.
“Have you got someone in mind?" Mel asked.
“No, just wondering."
“Yes, a woman could have done it. It's not so much a question of strength or weight as leverage. If you'd run into it accidentally, you'd hit it with your hip or shoulder and maybe rattle a few small items off the shelves. But it's not nearly as hard to make it go over if you reach up and push with both hands."
“I guess the thing was thoroughly fingerprinted," Jane said.
“Of course. The Bakers' and Mrs. Axton's prints were all over it, which they should have been. And there were some smudges in the area where someone might have pushed it."
“You don't mean to suggest that somebody came to the deli opening expecting to find Robert Stonecipher dead, planned ahead to push the rack over on him, and brought gloves along for the purpose!" Shelley exclaimed.
“Say, that's a theory I hadn't considered," Mel said. "Sorry to be sarcastic. No, there were a good half dozen people handling the thing, trying to pull the rack off him just in case he might still be revived. They're the ones who smudged it up."
“Mel, this whole thing — someone pushing that rack onto his body — has to have a con‑ nection to Emma's death, doesn't it?" Jane asked.
He shrugged. "Frankly, your guess is as good as mine. I don't believe in coincidences, but I sure can't come up with any reasons that anybody would do it."
“Okay, let's really think about this," Jane said.
“You and Shelley think," Mel said. "I'm going to eat cookies and give my brain a break."
“Okay," Shelley said in her organizational voice. "Here's the situation: X finds Y dead on the floor—"
“Apparently dead," Jane interrupted.
“Good. Yes, that might make all the difference. X finds Y sprawled on the floor. Maybe dead. Maybe unconscious. Pushes a heavy thing over on him, making it look like Y was murdered. So, what could the reasons be?"
“Sheer frustration," Jane said. "X hated Y, planned to kill him, and is furious to think somebody else got to it first and lashes out in a fit of pique."
“Okay, that's one," Shelley said. "Sheer hatred. X hated Y, but couldn't take any action against him, so when he sees him helpless for once, he's overcome by the impulse to dish out vengeance. And even if he knew for sure that Y was already dead, that hatred might just need the outlet of pretending to kill him."
“A bit more baroque," Jane said as if evaluating a painting. "How's this: X finds Y lying dead on the floor — doesn't necessarily even know or care who it is, but has a rabid hatred for Z—"
“Z?" Shelley asked indignantly.
“Let me finish. X hates Z and thinks by pushing the rack over on Y, he can blame it on Z."
“Who could Z be?" Shelley asked, still apparently resentful of the introduction of this new character.
“The first person who comes to mind is Conrad, just because it's his deli. Or maybe X planned to claim later that he'd seen Z leave the room just before the crash."
“If that were the case, why didn't X ever make such an accusation?" Shelley asked.
As serious as the subject really was, Jane felt a sense of ghoulish amusement take over. "Try this one then: X knows Y is having an affair with Z and was once married to Q, who is trying to haul him into court to testify in a drug-running case against P—"
“—and S knew all about it and was threatening to tell M, who feared that K would hear about it and All Would Be Revealed!" Shelley finished. "I like it, Jane. Mel, we've solved it. You can probably still make your arrest this evening if you hurry.”
Mel stared at them and then spoke very slowly and deliberately. "I thank all that is holy that you two didn't go into law enforcement.”
2 1
Jane couldn't sleep, which was a rare affliction for her. She claimed, only half joking, that anywhere that you could throw down a blanket and wad of something soft resembling a pillow was a good enough bed. She prided herself on being a champion sleeper, so on the rare occasions when she had insomnia, it made her furious. And that, naturally, made it worse.
She'd gone to bed not long after Shelley and Mel left and spent a luxurious hour finishing the Dorothy Sayers book she'd been reading in ten-minute bits since the week before. The rain had stopped, so she opened her bedroom window, turned out the light, and snuggled down to enjoy the cool air and, with any luck at all, dream about Lord Peter.
She was still flouncing around, trying out various comfortable positions, and waiting for sleep, when she heard Mike come in. She thought about calling good night to him in the hopes that he might feel like a chat, but rejected the idea. He'd think she'd waited up for him on purpose. Finally she nodded off, only to be awakened again at four-thirty when Max, who had positioned himself in the open bedroom window, saw a creature in the yard and gave a low, eerie growl.
Jane gave up.
She closed the window — it had gotten downright chilly — threw some sweats on over her nightgown, and decided she'd go downstairs and find another book to read. While she was at it, she'd get some laundry started while nobody was awake to complain about the washing machine interfering with showering. She gathered up an armload of dark clothes and crept quietly downstairs.
Max and Meow thought the whole thing was great. Night was their favorite time and there was so seldom anyone awake to enjoy it with them. They lashed themselves against her legs and made chirruping is-it-breakfast-time? noises. Jane dumped the dirty clothes by the basement door and opened a can of cat food, then picked the clothes up again and went down to throw them in the wash. She considered booting up the computer and playing a little solitaire while she was down there, but it was cold and vaguely clammy in the basement, and besides, she didn't want to think.
When she came back up, she got a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table. The room was a mess. She hadn't even loaded up the dishwasher after dinner, and the empty but crusty macaroni pan was still soaking in the sink. She'd at least scrub it out and get the nasty plates out of sight. Then she could really clean the kitchen in the morning.
But one thing led to another. Once she got the plates, glasses, and silverware off the counter and out of the sink, it was silly not to go ahead. She worked her way along the counter, tidying up. At the wall, where the phone was, there were a couple scraps of paper with phone numbers, which she tacked onto the little bulletin board. There was also a paper sack. She glanced into it and remembered that it was the trash sack from Mike's car that she'd tossed there when she came home the night before.
Jane headed for the wastebasket, then thought better of it. Shelley had said it was trash, but it might not all be. If Mike had some car gadget in the sack and she pitched it, she'd be in trouble. She threw away the items in it one by one. Gum wrappers, a wadded-up empty cigarette pack, a couple of receipts from the deli, a yellowed newspaper clipping Jane had thrown away the clipping before she realized there was a familiar name on it.
She pulled it back out, set it on the counter, and read it.
Then read it again.
"Mel, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" she asked.
His voice over the phone was blurry and irritable. "Janey, it's seven in the morning. Of course you woke me up!"