“Why? Was there something wrong with them, lady?"
“No. Just look up the delivery record. Please. It's very important."
“Okay," the boy said in surly voice. "What's the address again?”
She told him, then waited a terribly long time. He finally came back. "Naw, lady, we didn't bring nothing to you yesterday."
“What about the addresses on either side of me? Maybe it came to the wrong house?"
“Naw, nothing there either," he said after another interminable wait.
“Are you positive about this?"
“Sure, lady. Whatsamatter?"
“Nothing. Thank you.”
It was the answer she expected—and feared.
She could hear a shower running upstairs. Think, Jane. You've almost got it. She paced back and forth, pieces falling into place in her mind with sickening thuds. She searched frantically for a copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography. One day the house is littered with the damned books, and when you need it, there's not one anyplace, she fumed to herself. She finally found her mother's copy and thumbed through. She found the page she was looking for and read it over twice, then dog-eared the corner and closed the book.
Yes, it all fit. The flowers, the birdcage, the book. She'd been right. Her instinct had told her they were important, and now she knew why. And it seemed so obvious now that she couldn't imagine why she hadn't seen it immediately.
But why? Why? She went down to her office in the basement, where she could phone without being disturbed or overheard. She dialed the police station. "Is Mel VanDyne in, please? It's important."
“He was here a while ago. Think he left. I'll see. Hold on.”
She could hear the clack of typewriters and the murmur of voices. There was a high-pitched laugh closer to the phone. "Come on, Mel. Be there," she said to herself. Her heart was beating at twice the rate it should be, and she felt breathless from running down the stairs.
“Yes?"
“Mel. It's Jane. Thank goodness I caught you." "Jane, what's wrong? Are you hurt? I'll be right—"
“No. No, just listen. I know who killed her. It all fits, but there's no proof whatsoever. But I think you can get the proof."
“Who, Jane? Who are you talking about?"
“I'm afraid to say, for fear I'm wrong. But I know I'm not. No, what I'm most afraid of is that I'm right. Still—I'm sorry, I'm babbling. Give me a second." She covered the mouthpiece and took a long breath. "All right. Just listen. There are some things you have to do. Some information you have to get. If I'm right, that information will tell you all you need to know. First, call Evergreen Memories, that's a florist shop, and find out which of the suspects has been sent flowers recently. The paper was saved and wrapped around the flowers that were left on my porch.
“Next, tell the pathologist to test for aconite. If I'm right, that's what killed her.
“Third, you need to get some birth and death certificates from the State Department."
“Hold it, Jane. Birth and death certificates are registered with individual states' vital statistics departments, not the State Department."
“Not if you're an American who's born or dies outside the country. I know, because that's where I have to get copies of mine."
“What name?"
“You'll have to ask Maria Espinoza that. Do you have a copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography?" "Someplace. The teacher gave us one."
“Good. Find it. Look on page one twenty-eight. Question the maid about that page. Get names. Getthe birth and death certificates from the State Department. Mel, my daughter's yelling for me. It think there's somebody at the door. I have to go—"
“But, Jane—”
She hung up.
“Mom, are you down there? Mrs. Nowack's here," Katie yelled down the steps.
“Be right up.”
When she came back up the steps, Shelley and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table. "Jane, dear! What's wrong?" Cecily asked, getting up and putting her hand on Jane's forehead. "You're as white as a sheet."
“Where's Katie?" Jane asked quietly.
“Upstairs. Heading for the shower. What's wrong?"
“I'm going to tell you what I've done. I'm sure I'm right, but I hope desperately that I'm wrong. I know who killed Mrs. Pryce.”
Shelley had paled slightly, but her voice was strong. "Do I guess from your expression that it's not Bob Neufield?"
“Oh, I feel like shit about this! Sorry, Mom." "I've heard the word before, chickie. Sit down and tell us about it.”
Jane opened Mrs. Pryce's book. "Read page one twenty-eight and think about the little birdcage. Oh, and don't anybody try to get in the guest bathroom. I've locked the flowers in there."
“I'm sure this is going to make some kind of sense," Shelley said, looking at Jane as if she'd snapped her last twig.
“The blue flowers are monkshood. Very poisonous."
“Poisonous!" Shelley yelped.
Cecily was reading the page Jane had directed her to. She looked up slowly and passed the book to Shelley. "Yes, yes. I think maybe I see what you mean. But who ...?”
20
Jane didn't expect to hear back from Mel during the morning. She knew he'd be too busy to call her. By noon, however, she was getting fretful. Her concerns about the murder, however, had to be put aside when, right on schedule at one o'clock, Thelma Jeffry's battleship gray Lincoln cruised into the drive. Jane hurried out to greet her youngest son—and of unfortunate necessity, her mother-in-law.
She took one look at Todd as he tumbled out of the car and gasped. "Todd! You must have gained ten pounds!”
He hugged her hard. "Yeah, Gramma let me eat anything I want. It was great, Mom-old-thing."
“Sure she did," Jane said through a forced smile. Thelma Jeffry, an angular, hard-edged woman, believed the way to any man's heart was to turn him into Porky Pig. "Thelma, you look like you've survived the ordeal," Jane said, coming around the car and helping her out.
“Oh, naturally. Children are quite pleasant to travel with if you've got your own wits together," Thelma purred. The implication was clear: Jane had no wits to speak of and certainly never had them together. But Jane was glad to see that there were lines of fatigue around Thelma's eves, and she looked awfully pale for a woman who'd just spent a week in Florida. "Cecily, how nice to see you," Thelma said.
Jane's mother had come out onto the porch. Todd ran and practically tackled her. Thelma watched this reunion with a cold eye.
Todd treated them to a solid hour of excited chatter about his trip, while Thelma sat stolidly listening. It was clear she was loathe to abandon him to his mother, much less his other grandmother, but was exhausted and longing to go home. She finally gave up the fight and left.
“Mom's leaving Monday. Do come to a big Sunday dinner, will you?" Jane asked Thelma as she tottered out to her car.
“That would be nice, dear. I do always enjoy hearing your mother talk about her . . . 'globe-trotting' life." She made it sound as if Cecily moved from campground to campground in a rusted-out pickup truck with a canvas tent in the back.
Todd met Jane as she went back in. "Mom, do you think Nana would mind if I went over to Elliot's? I got a lot of stuff to show him."
“I'm sure Nana would understand. Ask her yourself, though.”
A few minutes later, Jane and her mother were watching the driveway again. "Mike's due in about fifteen minutes. I'll be glad to have him back. Mom, I'm going to miss him horribly when he goes away to college. I depend on him so much."
“He's come through losing his father with flying colors, hasn't he?" Cecily said.