“You speak of your wife's death very calmly," Jane said.
“And so do you of your husband's," he pointed out.
“That's true. But at the end, it wasn't a happy marriage," she said. One of the great understatements. Steve had been leaving her for another woman on an icy February night when his car hit a guardrail.
“Neither was mine," he admitted. "I've got to check the cornbread."
“Can I do anything to help?" Jane asked.
“You could. I'm afraid I left the newspaper all over the dining room table. If you could just stuff it in the recycling bin in that closet.”
Jane liked it when people accepted an offer to help as sincere. Besides, in this case it was a good way to put an end to what might be polite inquiry on his part, but was seeming more like a job interview.
She gathered up the newspaper and opened the closet door. It was more of a pantry, really, with long shelves along one wall and recycling bins tucked under them. Sam Dwyer was, it ap‑ peared, seriously into recycling. In the paper bin there were not only newspapers, but cardboard egg cartons, leftover wrapping paper, magazines, a couple of flattened boxes. The metal bin was the same way. Not only soda and food cans, but even wads of used aluminum foil. This was a seriously overorganized person. Well, what could you expect from a man who actually wore an apron to cook? A masculine apron, but still… an apron.
Smiling to herself, she realized she was in absolutely no danger of falling for him.
This allowed her to enjoy her evening. The chili was spicy, but good, with lovely bits of real tomatoes in the sauce and a hint of some mysterious flavor she couldn't quite pin down, but suspected was just a breath of nutmeg. Sam had also made cornbread with a green chili sauce and a lot of paprika in the mix that was fabulous. There were deviled eggs, crisp celery stalks with a cream cheese stuffing, and tiny crackers that looked a bit like spaetzle that had been boiled then baked. Sam preened about them. They were his own culinary invention, but he didn't reveal the secret of making them. Just as well, Jane thought, she'd probably make a botch of it.
The kids ignored the subtlety of the food and just wolfed it down as if they were starving. Todd had a soft drink with his dinner; Pet had her special milk poured from a lovely old-fashioned pitcher. Jane was astonished that Pet, who appeared rather fragile, managed to outeat Todd. How nice for Sam that he hadn't gotten a picky eater for a child.
As soon as they finished eating, the kids went back to their computer game, which Jane regretted. This was supposed to be a family gathering and it would have been nice if the family members had all stuck it out.
Sam wasn't in any hurry to clear the table and get on with dessert. After Jane had finished her effusive and heartfelt compliments on the meal, he went into questioning mode again. But this time, it was about Lance King, not Jane. This amused her. He, more than anyone else in the neighborhood, had seemed disinterested in it. He hadn't, to her knowledge, walked up the block to ask the neighbors what was going on, which was what nearly everyone else had done.
“What were the police doing this afternoon with rakes in the middle of winter?" he asked.
Jane figured enough people knew the answer that she wouldn't be giving away anything she shouldn't. "Apparently Lance King kept notes about people he might go after on a computer disk, rather than on the computer itself. At least, that's what his assistant, Ginger, says. They haven't found the disk and seem to think it may have fallen out of his pocket either while he was climbing onto the roof or when he went off the edge."
“What a strange thing to do. Disks are fragile. Do they suspect someone of taking it?"
“I have absolutely no idea what the police think of anything," Jane said firmly. "And to be truthful, I'm tired of the whole thing. What with the usual stress of Christmas and the neighbors who put up decorations that have drawn half of Chicago to stare at their house, Lance King's murder is just too much to cope with.”
He got the hint and didn't ask anything more. Instead, he turned on the radio to a classical station and started cleaning up the table. "I guess I'd feel the same way if I were closer to it all," he said. "But it'll soon be over. The holidays and the investigation."
“Or maybe not," Jane said. "There are murders that are never solved. I'm not entirely sure this might not be one of them.”
Twenty
Sam made a couple trips with dishes, this time turning down Jane's offer to assist. While he was on the first trip, she took a sip of the milk substitute Pet had left in her glass. Good stuff. Tasted just like the real thing, but probably cost the earth. Thank heavens none of her own kids had allergies that demanded substitute foods. What a nuisance.
Sam called Todd and Pet back to the table and brought out dessert, which was cut-up flour tortillas, deep-fried and dusted with sugar. They helped settle the chili, he claimed. But the chili was giving Jane a bit of stomach trouble, which she hated because she'd always prided herself on having a cast-iron digestive tract.
When they finished dessert, Jane said, "That was a superb dinner, Sam," in a tone she hoped suggested finality.
“You're not leaving, are you?"
“I hate to be rude, but I do have to get back home. I still have tons to do today. I'm not even through wrapping Christmas presents."
“Oh," Pet said. "I wanted to show you my scrapbook with pictures of my mom."
“Pet, I'm sure Mrs. Jeffry can come back and see them some other time," Sam said.
But Pet looked so disappointed that Jane had to relent. "Presents can wait a little while, I guess. I'd love to see your pictures.”
While Sam cleaned up dinner, Pet got out her scrapbook which was in a protective cover. She sat down next to Jane on the sofa and presented it proudly. It was well-worn. Apparently Pet had a deep sense of loss for the mother she couldn't remember. Jane wondered if Sam had given any thought to a little therapy for the child. It couldn't be easy for him, either, being as he'd said the marriage wasn't a real good one.
The first picture was a wedding shot. Stiff, formal. Or at least the much younger Sam was standing rigid with a frozen smile. The bride, however, looked like she was having the time of her life. The photographer had caught her in what looked like the middle of a laugh. She wasn't really beautiful, except in the way all brides are automatically beautiful, but she looked high-spirited and happy. Medium-brown hair like Pet's, but lots of it, all fluffed out and curling all over the place. The gown was cut a bit low and there was an expanse of bulging bosom that wasn't quite virginal.
“Your mother was very pretty, Pet," Jane said. Pet nodded solemnly.
The next pictures were badly done snapshots. The newlywed couple posed by a presumably new car with palm trees in the background. Sitting on a beach and all but invisible under a bigumbrella. Playing with a dog in a tiny fenced yard. In every picture, Pet's mom was laughing and Sam was looking serious. No wonder they hadn't gotten along. There was just the slightest suggestion of "the floozy with a heart of gold" in Pet's mom's appearance. Not trashy, just a little more voluptuous and carefree than most women. But then, she was young, too.
“This is my favorite," Pet said, turning to a new page.
It was her mother in a maternity dress, standing sideways with a great, bulging midsection.
“That's me," Pet said with a giggle. It was the first time Jane had heard Pet sound genuinely happy. "That was the night before I was born."
“That's a great picture. I have one like that, too. The day before Mike was born. What was your mother's name, Pet?"
“Patricia. Like me. Only she was called Patty Sue.”
The rest of the pictures told a story that Pet probably wouldn't understand until she was older. The pictures of Patty Sue with Pet, and there were a lot of them, were the old Patty Sue, laughing and happy. Those with Sam and Patty Sue alone were serious. A filmed history of a marriage falling apart. Someday Jane might have to look through her photos and see if her own marriage had gone to pieces in the photo record.
Or maybe she wouldn't.
The last picture was of Pet's third birthday. She was sitting on Patty Sue's lap with a birthday cake in front of them and icing all over Pet's face. Patty Sue was wiping away tears of laughter. Sam wasn't in the picture.
“Pet, your scrapbook is wonderful. You're so lucky to have all these pictures and I'm sure you'll treasure them all your life," Jane said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffry," Pet said, closing the album and putting it in a plastic bag that protected it. Just then Todd, still playing at the computer in the den, called to her and she excused herself quite properly and left the room.
Too bad Pet hadn't gotten to have her mother a little longer, Jane thought. She might have absorbed more of the woman's sense of fun and frivolity. Pet did need to be tickled sometimes and Jane guessed that Patty Sue had been a tickling kind of mother.
“Sam, I have to get home," she said, going into the kitchen. "I'm worried about my water pipes. The wind's picked up and that'll make the cold worse."
“I'll drive you home," he said, closing the door on the dishwasher. The kitchen was spotless.
“No, it's only three houses away. No use you going out, too.”
Luckily, the mild fight to get Todd away from the computer game and into his outerwear prevented any extended good-byes or anything more specific than Sam's vague remark about doing this again someday. Todd raced away up the street, while Jane followed as quickly as she could without risking a fall.
As she came in the kitchen door, Todd greeted her with a grim face. "Mom, old thing, you're not going to like this.”
“Not the pipes!”