A police car pulled to a sudden stop in front of the house, and two uniformed officers ran across the lawn and separated Bobby and Mr. Finch without too much difficulty. "Show's over, ladies," one of the officers called to them.
Jane blushed with embarrassment.
Suzie had a much higher embarrassment threshold. "Sonofabitch," she muttered with heat. The three of them hurried back to the house, and Suzie continued. "Couple of wimps. I could have beaten them both.”
Fiona was at the door. "What in the world became of you?”
They told her about the fight.
“Oh, dear," Fiona said, sounding defeated. 'This is all so unpleasant, and I hold myself toblame. If I hadn't mentioned that house was for sale, it would still be nice and vacant. What if something awful happens while the bazaar is going on? We can hardly expect people to pick their way through a full-scale battle to buy a few Christmas things."
“We'll worry about that if it happens," Shelley said briskly. "There won't be a bazaar if we don't get back to work.”
Nothing more was heard from next door. The music stopped a few minutes after the police arrived. The four women worked in peace all afternoon. The only interruption was John Wagner dropping by to tell Jane that there would be a funeral service for his stepmother at ten o'clock the next morning. Fortunately, Fiona's maid, Celia, showed him in directly to where Jane was working, and he didn't cross paths with either Fiona or Albert.
“Dad thought about having her buried from the old church they went to when they lived in the city, but I talked him into having it out here." He made no reference to the events of the night before, and neither did Jane.
“Do you want me to come along to the funeral?" Shelley asked when he'd left.
“Good Lord, no! You promised to fight the crowds with me to do some Christmas shopping tomorrow afternoon. That's all anybody could ask of a friend."
“I'm so glad you realize that. Now, about pricing these fruitcakes—”
Shelley had to drive a car pool at three, Suzie at three-thirty, and Jane at three forty-five, but each returned to finish off one job or another.
They sat down for a last slice of Fiona's banana bread and a cup of coffee at five, confident that they had the bazaar situation well in hand.
If only the rest of life could be handled by hard work and organization, Jane thought longingly. How unutterably sad that Phyllis couldn't have been with them. It was exactly the sort of day she'd have loved. What had Mel VanDyne been doing all day while they sorted and priced Christmas knickknacks? Jane wondered. Was he any closer to finding Phyllis's killer?
Nineteen
Jane got up Saturday morning far earlier than necessary. It was refreshing to enjoy the illusion of having the house to herself. The kids were all sleeping late, so she didn't have to worry about running out of hot water before she was through showering, about fighting Katie for the hot curlers, or about having to drop everything and drive somebody to school before she'd booted up her brain. No music blared from stereos, no cars honked impatiently in the driveway, nobody ran through the house wildly searching for lost books or lunch money or permission slips.
Bliss.
The first order of business was to get ready for Phyllis's funeral. She was going to wear her charcoal gray suit and black silk blouse. Shelley had bought it for her for Steve's funeral last winter, and this was the first time since then that she'd worn it. She got it out and put it on with a certain amount of dread. After all, the associations were grim. Yet she looked in the mirror and was surprised to see herself smiling a bit. This wasn't the same woman who wore the suit last February. That Jane had been blotto—emotionally and physically wiped out.
Everybody had been so sympathetic and mistaken then. That was the hardest part—to act the role of a woman who had lost her loving partner, when inside she was raging with rejection, furious at his disloyalty, and despising herself for her own stupidity and failure.
But this was a new woman wearing the charcoal suit. Under Shelley's dictatorial guidance, she'd streaked her hair, gone in for regular perms, lost a little weight, and learned a bit about makeup, although mascara still made her feel like she had raccoon eyes. "Eat your heart out, Steve," she told the mirror and felt a little tingle of vindication.
It was only eight-thirty when she went downstairs for a quiet hour of finishing up the afghan. While she was feeding the animals, she heard the soft purr of a car in the driveway and was surprised—and pleased, for once—to see the red MG. Imagine Mel VanDyne catching her at her best, instead of her worst. It might be a sign.
When she opened the front door to him, she was gratified to see the look on his face. "Mrs. Jeffry—Jane, I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.
“Not at all. Come in." She led him to the living room, deliciously aware that he was staring at her. "Please, sit down. Could I get you anything? Coffee?"
“If you have a Coke around, I could use a caffeine fix."
“I can do better than that. The kids have something that's got tons of caffeine. It's advertised that way. She came back with a glass of ice and a can of something with a lightning bolt on the label.
He took a sip and grimaced happily. "If you don't mind my saying so, 'you look mauwvellous! "
“Thanks," Jane said with a laugh. "Nice of you to notice. I know it's considered very old-fashioned to wear dark colors for funerals, but I just can't throw on a pink dress for one. My mother taught me too well."
“Does your mother live here?”
She wondered why he was being so chatty but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "No, my mother lives all over the place. Right now she and my father are in a little country in Africa. They're State Department. My dad has a positively spooky gift for language. He can start speaking almost anything the day he first hears it, so they've spent their life all over the world, wherever our government wants to hear what's being said."
“Did you grow up that way?"
“Oh, yes. In fact, when my husband and I moved here, it was two years before I could bear to unpack the last suitcase and put it in the basement storage. Force of habit—I was so sure I would have to move again. What are you doing here this morning?”
She'd taken him off guard. "Why, I—I wondered if you wanted a ride to the funeral. No, that's not the truth. I wanted to ask you some questions, too."
“About what? I've already told you everything I know about Phyllis."
“It isn't about her." He paused a moment, then went on in a brisk, professional tone. "This morning, about five, when a trash-hauling company picked up their dumpster behind the shopping mall, there was a body beside it. Bobby's.”
Jane felt her bright perkiness fade as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. "Oh, no. How did he die?"
“Stabbed. From behind. Somebody must have taken him completely by surprise."
“Behind a dumpster at the mall? What on earth was he doing there? Besides getting killed?"
“That's probably all. I imagine he was supposed to meet someone.”
Mel was silent as Jane rummaged in the end table drawer until she found a stale cigarette. He leaned forward and lit it for her. She sat back and took a long drag. "It's odd," she finally said, sensing that he was waiting for her to say something. "I'm not surprised or sad, because he was probably the most hateful, obnoxious person I've ever known. But in another way, I am sorry. It's just not right to stab people in the back because they're awful."