“So that's why they kept asking me about the dinner."
“I guess so. The man who interviewed me wanted to know who'd brought what."
“I assume they're considering it a deliberate poisoning?" Missy asked.
“I don't know what else it could be. I mean, if a poison had accidentally been in any of the dishes, more than two people would have gotten sick. We were all pretty polite about trying a little of everything. And if it had been some weird allergic reaction, it probably would have affected only one person. But it's crazy anyway."
“What do you mean?"
“Just that she was a first-class bitch, but so are lots of people, and they don't get killed. If this was poisoning and it was deliberate, it means one of the people in the class might have done it, and that's unbelievable."
“Unlikely, I'll grant," Missy said. "I think I will take you up on that tea offer, if you don't mind."
“Okay. Let's take them outside while it's still nice. It's supposed to be in the nineties later today.”
It was already warm, but still just barely pleasant outdoors. There had been a little rain overnight, and the garden looked refreshed. Willard came out with them for a little romp in the vegetables before he got on with the doggy business of barking at birds.
“It's more than just unlikely that it was someone in class," Jane continued as they settled themselves under the patio umbrella. She yelled at Willard, who reluctantly came back and flopped down under her chair. "Killing somebody must be a huge thing in a person's life. If you were given to murdering peoplejust because they were annoying as hell, you'd give in to the urge early in life, wouldn't you?"
“I'm not sure I follow this," Missy said.
“Well, forgive my frankness, but nobody in the class, including us, is exactly a spring chicken. And I think we can assume that none of us has ever killed anybody before."
“Not to my recollection. Except maybe Bob Neufield," Missy said, pushing her hair back out of her eyes and fishing in her purse for her sunglasses.
“Why him in particular?"
“Just because I assume from his manner that he was in the military or law enforcement or one of those immaculately ironed professions. The man has ramrod posture, and his clothes never have so much as a wrinkle. So if he were military, he might have killed someone in war. He's probably old enough to have been in Korea and Vietnam."
“I see what you mean," Jane said. "Did you hear Mrs. Pryce yell something at him about serving his country?"
“Yes. Suggesting that he was a pansy who got thrown out on his ear. Poor guy. He'd been about the only one who'd escaped her nasty tongue, and then she caught him at the end."
“Do you suppose it's true?" Jane asked. "Normally I wouldn't give a damn, but under the circumstances, maybe it's important. Did you tell the police about her saying that?"
“I don't know if it's true, and no, I didn't tell the police. I didn't remember it until now. Listen, Jane, I don't mean to sound callous—I'm truly concerned about this, but I actually came to talk to you about something else, and I don't want it to get lost in this mess. I want to talk to you about your Priscilla project."
“Oh, yes?" Had it suddenly gotten hotter or was it just her nerves coming to life? Missy looked at her over the top of her sunglasses. "Yes. Let me ask you something—are you having fun doing this or are you just being dutiful about class?"
“I'm having fun. In fact, I'm embarrassed to admit how much fun it is ..." Jane paused. "No, that's not entirely accurate. I'm enjoying it, but mostly I'm obsessing on it. I guess with two of my kids gone, I need another outlet for that maternal urge to try to run somebody's life. The nice thing about Priscilla is that she has to do what I say. I wouldn't tell this to anybody but you, but even as upset as I was last night, I sat down for a half an hour or so and scribbled a few notes on things I'd thought of for Priscilla to say and do. It's weird, though. I'm not so sure she'll be willing to say and do them—”
Missy nodded. "That's what I'd hoped—and was half-afraid—you'd say. Jane, I don't want to shock you, but I think you're coming down with a book. I know the signs."
“Coming down ... ? You mean writing a book?" Jane scoffed. "That's ridiculous. I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to write a whole book."
“You write it one page at a time. Just like you're doing."
“No, I'd never consider it. Really.”
This whole concept was so revolutionary it almost took her breath away. Could ordinary, real people write books? Missy did. Wow! For a minute it was as if Mrs. Pryce had never existed, much less gotten herself murdered.
“I'm sorry to have to tell you this: You don't getto consider it," Missy was saying. "Writing is something you have to do. An obsession; you use your own word. The world is made up of people who can't write and those who can't help but write. Still, I won't push you. I just wanted to tell you that if you decide to give a serious shot at writing a book, I'd be thrilled to help you.”
Willard lumbered to his feet and put a paw on Jane's knee. She absentmindedly fished an ice cube out of her tea and gave it to him. He settled back down, chewing noisily. "Do you mean you think this story of mine really could be a book?" Jane asked.
Missy nodded. "It's remarkably good writing for a beginner. Of course, good writing isn't everything—there's structuring and marketing and a lot more. But good writing is the first essential.”
They heard the gate squeak, and a moment later Shelley appeared. "Good. You're still here. Mel VanDyne just called me. He said you didn't answer your phone, and asked if I knew what had become of you. I told him I could see you and Missy out here, and he asked everybody to stay put."
“Pitcher of iced tea on the counter," Jane said, feeling this was adequate hostessing for Shelley. She was still trying to cope with what Missy had said.
“Maybe later," Shelley said.
“Not more questions from VanDyne," Missy said. "I'm getting real bored with the few facts I know. It's only a matter of time before I start embroidering them with fictional fillips. Fiction writers are born liars.”
Shelley reached toward Jane's glass, which Jane snatched away. "Get your own," she said.
Before Shelley got back, Jane could hear a car door slamming in the driveway. "Around back!" she shouted inelegantly. She was glad that, tired as she was, she'd washed her hair this morning and put on decent clothes. Mel was back in his detective mode, but he might notice her as a woman instead of a peripheral object in an investigation.
He came out onto the patio, holding a glass of tea Shelley had forced on him. She was right behind with the pitcher and a bucket of ice on a tray. Jane wondered how Shelley'd gotten the ice maker to give up its cubes. It tended to create one large, lumpy mass instead of individual pieces. But there wasn't a household appliance in the world that could best Shelley.
Mel sat down with a sigh. The rest of them had at least gotten a few fleeting hours of sleep; Mel must have been up all night. He was wearing the same clothes, but except for the weary sigh, he looked fresh and bright. He repeated what he'd told Jane earlier about Maria Espinoza and the tests. They still didn't have definitive results. "So, ladies, I'd like to go over the food and seating arrangements and so forth with you.”
Willard had finished his ice cube and finally noticed there were newcomers. He shambled over to put his head on Mel's thigh. Mel patted his big, square head and waved his hand at the cloud of gnats that went everywhere the dog went.
“We've all been questioned about that already," Missy said. "Can't we go on to something else? It's like revising the same chapter over and over."