“Could I ask you a favor, Jane?" Ruth said. "Are you going out anywhere this afternoon?"
“Yes, I have to take Katie a sandwich for her dinner."
“That's wonderful. Would you drop this sign-up sheet at Bob Neufield's on the way? He lives right across from the pool. I was supposed to take it this morning, but I was concerned about Naomi and just forgot. Naomi had a little dizzy spell that shook me up. This list is for the library sale, and I've held it up too long.”
Jane leaped at the chance. She wanted to talk to Bob Neufield, just to get to know him a little better. It was an impulse she was sure Mel VanDyne would disapprove of, but the police were making so little headway, and it was possible she could learn something that could unravel the mystery of Mrs. Pryce's death.
“Aren't they interesting women?" Cecily said as they headed for home. "So fond of each other and so proud of each other's interests.”
Jane smiled and glanced sideways at her. "Wishing you had daughters like that? Maybe if you'd kept us apart for a few decades ... Still, I'll call Marty next week. Promise. And I won't even mention her cretin of a husband."
“Somehow, I think you're missing the point.”
They got in the house, and Cecily yawned and said, "That nap idea sounds good. Do you mind . . .?"
“Not in the least." As soon as her mother was out of earshot, Jane dialed the phone. "Shelley, want to do a little snooping? I've got a legitimate excuse to go by Bob Neufield's. Just give me time to pack a sandwich."
“You're taking Bob Neufield a sandwich?"
“No, the sandwich is for Katie. Seven minutes tops."
12
Shelley was waiting in her minivan in her driveway when Jane dashed out with Katie's hastily assembled sack dinner. "Mother and I just had tea with Ruth and Naomi," she said, snapping the seat belt and testing that it .was secure. With Shelley at the wheel, it wasn't an idle activity. She'd have felt better with a crash helmet as well.
“Learn anything helpful?" Shelley asked, backing out at the speed of sound. Shelley was a very polite, ladylike person, but all her aggressions came out when she was driving.
“Not much," Jane admitted, her foot pressed so hard to an imaginary brake pedal that her muscles cramped. She always told herself she'd be better off if she just closed her eyes and imagined she was on the Concorde, but she couldn't do it. "Mostly negative as far as the murder goes. I mentioned to Ruth how nasty it was of Mrs. Pryce to act like Naomi was contagious, and Ruth said lots of people have done the same thing, mostly in slightly nicer ways."
“You're kidding!"
“Watch the road, Shelley!"
“I've never had an accident," Shelley said with haughty dignity. "So much for Naomi killing her because she was hurt and insulted."
“It never was a good motive," Jane said.
“I know. If we went around killing people who insulted us, there'd be nobody left at the phone company or the IRS. What about Ruth? Was she mad enough to have done something on Naomi's behalf?"
“Maybe at the moment, but she said Naomi read her the riot act afterwards. Ruth even admitted she overreacted. I can't see a sudden rage lasting until the next day. Especially when the victim of the insult wasn't that upset. Well, upset, but resigned anyway."
“I don't suppose the subject of poisons came up?”
Jane could have sworn Shelley took the last turn on two of the van's four wheels. "Hardly. That would have been like saying, thanks for the lovely tea, and by the way, have you murdered anyone lately?"
“Nonsense. It was a logical thing to mention."
“I guess so, but I didn't get a chance. Although, in a way, it did come up. Ruth pressed some articles on me about organic gardening. She's real high on it. That probably means she doesn't have any garden poisons around. Anyway, there was lots of chitchat, then Naomi started feeling bad, so we got out."
“Organic gardening," Shelley mused, narrowly missing a parked car.
“It was mainly about compost and using Ivory Liquid to kill aphids," Jane explained. "I don't think you could kill anyone with compost—unless you buried them in it.”
Shelley screeched to a stop in front of the pool. "What else did you talk about?"
“Honk for Katie," Jane said, then proceeded to repeat as much of the conversation as she could remember while they waited for Katie to notice them.
“I don't see anything dark and mysterious in any of that," Shelley mused. She made it sound as if it were Jane's fault.
Katie came bouncing over to the car. "Hi, Mrs. Nowack. Thanks, Mom. It's not peanut butter again, is it?"
“No, it's cream cheese with pineapple," Jane said placidly. Katie looked stricken. "Just kidding. It's roast beef and pickles."
“Good. See ya.”
When they were off again, Shelley said, "Didn't Ruth used to be a nurse? Maybe she could get poisons from the hospital."
“Hold it. That's the house. No, she wasn't a nurse. She was a nursery school teacher. I doubt that she had contact with anything more dangerous than peroxide for cuts there."
“Jane, you're not cooperating. We've got to figure out who did this. Anybody could be the next victim."
“I want to know just as much as you do. I'm just pointing out that you can't pin it on Ruth because she was a nurse when she wasn't one. Boy, is that ever a bachelor's house," she added, gazing out at Bob Neufield's plain, boxy home.
The house was sparkling white and the lawn excruciatingly tidy, but the whole had a naked, unfinished look. There were no shutters to frame the windows and give a contrast of color, no foundation plantings, no flowers, not even a rail around the cement slab porch. The windows on the front didn't even have curtains, only utilitarian roller shades.
“Now, that's a man who needs a dozen plastic flamingos to dress the place up," Jane said with a giggle, then immediately sobered when she remembered the purpose of their visit. "Now, Shelley, don't ask anything too blunt."
“What do you mean? I'm the soul of tact."
“I just mean we want to figure this out, but we don't want to put ourselves in danger. No 'what were you doing the night of blah blah' stuff that makes us sound like detectives.”
They left the car on the street under a shade tree and went to the door. There wasn't a doorbell, so they knocked.
Bob Neufield opened the door and stared at them for a moment, obviously trying to place them.
“Mr. Neufield, I'm Jane Jeffry and this is Shelley Nowack. We're in Missy's class with you."
“Oh, yes. Sorry." He smiled, but it was the expression of a man who'd been told it was courteous to smile and didn't quite know why he should.
Jane waited a few seconds for him to step aside and invite them in, but he didn't. "Ruth Rogers asked me to drop off a sign-up sheet for some library thing." She handed it to him.
He took it, glanced at the heading, and said, "Thanks.”
There was another awkward pause. Shelley said, "If you're not busy, I wonder if we could come in for a moment.”
Count on Shelley, Jane thought.
Neufield looked perplexed, but said, "Sure. Come in.”
The living room was like the front of the house: painfully neat, but with nothing to suggest real human habitation. The walls were bare of pictures. The furniture was of nice quality, but it looked as if it were set up for a catalog photograph. Everything was shades of tasteful, boring beige. There was a bookshelf, but it contained only books. Very few pictures or ornaments or memorabilia. Only a football trophy and one intriguing picture of a beautiful youngwoman. "I see you're interested in military history," Jane said, scanning a few of the book titles.
“Yes, it's been a lifelong hobby of mine. I've even had a few articles published in some of the history magazines," he said, apparently mistaking Jane's comment for passionate interest. "I have quite a collection of artifacts, too. Would you like to see them?"