“You didn't find the disk?" Jane asked, when Mel came to the door.
“No, and I don't think it's there. Any coffee left?”
Jane poured him a big cup and sat down with him at the kitchen table. "I've got to talk fast, Mel. The kids and I are invited out to an early dinner at a neighbor's, but there were a couple things I wanted to run by you." Well, the kids were all invited, and Sam Dwyer was a neighbor, so it wasn't a lie.
“Been snooping?"
“Just keeping our eyes and ears open," she said huffily. "I presume you know that Sharon Wilhite is Lance King's ex-wife?"
“She told us that.”
Jane quickly ran through the high points of what Sharon had told her and Shelley. "Does that match what she told you?"
“As if scripted," he said wryly.
“Does that mean you don't believe her?"
“Not necessarily. But I'm having a little trouble figuring out why she'd come to your house when there was the least chance he'd be here. If I were she, I'd have avoided it like the plague."
“Did you ask her that?" Jane said.
Mel nodded. "She said she'd heard he was coming, then heard he wasn't, so she figuredthere was no danger of running into him. Maybe she trusts in gossip more than I do."
“She doesn't strike me as a Pollyanna type," Jane said. She glanced at her watch. She needed to move this conversation along so that she didn't have to discuss just which neighbor had invited her to dinner. "The other thing Shelley and I learned was about the Johnsons.”
He said, "I can't tell you anything about them."
“Yes, but I can. They're sociologists or 'cultural historians' or something. They faked the hillbilly act to spy on the neighborhood for a new book they're writing.”
Mel nodded.
“You knew? And you weren't going to tell me?"
“Not until King's murder is sorted out. I should have known you'd pry it out of them yourself."
“I didn't pry it out of them. It fell in my lap. Or rather, my front hall. A box of copies of their newest book was delivered here and the kids opened it by mistake. I saw the picture of them on the back.”
Mel's eyes widened. "Why doesn't information find its way to me so easily?"
“Do you suspect them?"
“Because they were faking an identity? Nope. They told us right away who they really were and what they were up to. It was, marginally, a legitimate deception. Nothing illegal about it, at least.”
Jane glanced at her watch. Quarter of five. And she still had to change her clothes and put on fresh makeup. "How's your mother getting along?"
“Mom! Dinner! Hell!" he said, suddenly getting up. "I've got to go, Jane. I'll give you a call later. Or drop by if I can.”
As he was struggling into his coat, Jane asked, "Are you making progress with this investigation?”
He hesitated for a minute. "Nope," he said with discouraged honesty. "Don't take that to mean, however, that you and Shelley need to interfere."
“There's that word again," Jane said with a smile. "We don't 'interfere.' We just sometimes provide you with a more domestic view of things."
“Yeah, right," Mel said, giving her a perfunctory kiss and plunging out into the cold.
Sam Dwyer had done a good job of being both father and mother, at least as far as the appearance of the house went. It wasn't high style, but it was cozy and homey, with a lot of the niceties that men don't often notice. There were lots of afghans tossed around on the furniture, throw pillows, pictures on the walls. The Christmas tree was huge and decorated almost entirely with things Pet had made or taken a fancy to. There were lots of little dolls, ornaments with globs of glitter, and unidentifiable stuff that had been made with love, if not artistic ability.
Pet immediately took Todd off to see yet another new computer game she'd gotten. Jane followed the smell of chili to the kitchen. Samturned and said, "Sorry I didn't meet you at the door. I was cutting up some extra onions. Sit down. Make yourself at home, Jane.”
Jane glanced around the kitchen. It was larger than that of most of the unrenovated houses in the neighborhood. Maybe that's why Sam had chosen it. Judging from the smell of the chili and the expert way he was dicing onions, he was a serious cook. There was a rack of expensive cooking pans of every size hanging above the sink and on the windowsill there was a row of tiny pots full of growing herbs in miniature wooden crates.
“I'm told my chili is only one chemical reaction away from lava," he said, "but I've tried to keep the spice to a minimum this time."
“It smells wonderful. You must be a good cook."
“My wife didn't like to cook and she was awful at it, so I had to learn. Took some classes and discovered I was a fair hand at it. Would you like a drink? I have iced tea, sangria, coffee…?"
“Sangria would go well with chili, thanks."
“I think so, too." He poured two glasses after washing his hands thoroughly to get rid of the onion odor, and sat down across from her. "Do you cook?" he asked.
Jane almost laughed at the bluntness of the question. "I do. We'd starve otherwise. Actually, I cook a few things very, very well. But it's the day-in-and-day-out, just-for-nourishment cooking that drives me crazy."
“We ought to consider trading off dinners," he said. "Save each of us half the trouble."
“Maybe so," Jane said uneasily.
“Are you from this area?" he asked.
“No, I'm not from anywhere really," Jane said. She explained briefly that her father was in the State Department and owing to his downright spooky gift for picking up almost any language in a matter of days, she and her sister Marty had spent most of their childhood either traveling with their parents, or stuck in the nearest boarding school. "He'd be what they used to call an 'idiot savant' except that he isn't an idiot," Jane said.
“But you've lived here quite a while, haven't you?"
“Oh, yes. My childhood was interesting, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone. When I married, I was determined to raise my kids in the same house for all their growing-up years. Fortunately, I married a man who had rock-deep family ties here, so there was never any danger of having to move."
“I thought you were a widow. Someone told me that."
“I am. But I've stuck in place anyway." She was a bit wary about being questioned and certainly had no intention of getting all chummy and telling him about her finances and how she managed to keep the house, unlike many divorced or widowed women did.
Sam topped up her sangria and looked like he was about to ask her something else.
“And what about you?" she said quickly.
“Oh, much the same, I think. My dad was closer to the.idiot side and could never keep a job. But the result was the same. Lots of moving,no sense of home. Not much sense of family either. Lots of times he'd have to work quite a while in a new job before he could send for us and in the meantime my mom had to work to make ends meet. I feel like you do about raising children in the same place."
“How long have you been here?"