That one mental statement was crammed with considerations with which Jane was hardly prepared to cope. The fact that a woman could commit murder, for starters. Even though the news was filled with reports of women who killed, Jane could never quite bring herself to believe it. Murder was, to her, a strictly male activity. Being a mother, she was convinced that any mother could and would do anything to protect her children, but not necessarily herself. Very rarely herself. Stretching her imagination, she could just barely conceive of a few women she'd known commissioning a murder. Wanting it done so badly they'd have it done secondhand. That, of course, raised the question of how one found somebody to commit murder for you, but that didn't seem to be the point here.
Besides, what secret could be so dark and dangerous and compelling? After all, these were people she knew. Of course, everybody had something they didn't want others to know about — well, everybody except the people who wanted to be on Phil Donahue's show. Even though Jane's life abroad had prepared her for many things, she wasn't at all prepared to picture her neighbors, who belonged to the PTA, as people capable of having done something so awful that they might turn to murder.
A knock at the kitchen door startled her. She suddenly remembered that, in spite of her resolve, she had failed to lock it. Uncle Jim was right. She had ridiculously careless habits. Peering through the curtains, she saw with relief that it was Shelley.
“Come in. I thought you had errands to do."
“I do, but I couldn't do them for thinking about all this," Shelley admitted. "I was supposed to pick up the dog, but I just couldn't face having him hang on my pant cuffs. I'm going to leave him at the kennel till the kids get home. Jane, I want this settled so the kids can come home. I miss them, but I won't have them back until I know we're all safe — at least from whoever killed that woman. Jane, I've got to get all that stuff out of the refrigerator and the dishes back to people. Come help me clean it out, will you?"
“Sure. Let me get my keys." As she was reaching for her purse, the phone rang and she grabbed it. "Hello?"
“Mrs. Jeffry? This is Karen from the Specialty Siding Company. We have a crew in your neighborhood giving estimates this week. You do own your own home there at—"
“Do you?"
"Do I what?"
“Do you own your own home?”
There was the usual baffled silence at the other end of the line. Jane smiled smugly. It always worked.
“I — well, that is to say, I don't quite understand—"
“You're trying to tell me it's none of my business, aren't you?" Jane interrupted warmly. "Well, it's none of your business either. Goodbye."
“Roofing and siding?" Shelley asked. "That's clever. I usually just lie and tell them I rent.”
“That works?"
“Yup. They only want to talk to somebody who can commit their very own thousands of dollars to covering up the outside of the house. I like yours better. It gets closer to the heart of why those calls make me so mad."
“Do you suppose most people tell them the truth without a fight?" Jane asked as they went outside. She locked the kitchen door and tested it to make sure it latched.
“They must or they wouldn't keep asking."
“I've been thinking about it… As they went to Shelley's house, Jane told her about the Donahue show. "We're being conditioned to tell anybody who asks us anything they want to know. Like the so-called survey calls that ask you one stupid question about a television show, then your age and income, and proceed to try to sell you four thousand magazines you don't want for twice what it would normally cost. But at the same time most people are spill‑ ing their guts to anybody who asks, some people are hoarding pretty awful secrets.”
They sat down at the kitchen table. Shelley had been clipping grocery store coupons and started gathering them up and putting them into the small cardboard file she kept in her purse. "Here's one for cat food I saved for you," she said.
Jane folded it and stuffed it in her jeans pocket. She was still brooding over secrets told and secrets kept. "Do you have any awful secrets, Shelley? I don't mean I'm asking what they are, just if you have any."
“You know them all," Shelley said. "Except for some stupid, embarrassing things, most of which I've mercifully forgotten."
“My secrets are petty in the world's scheme of things," Jane said. "Once I forgot to pay for a loaf of bread at a market in France, and deliberately didn't go back to pay when I realized it. My worst was chipping a tiny flake of rock off one of the stones at Stonehenge. I was dared on a school outing. I felt horrible about it for months, and tried to figure out how I could send it back, but I was only twelve and I was scared that they'd get my fingerprints off the envelope and trace me to my father and he'd lose his job in the State Department for having such a wicked daughter."
“My worst was shoplifting a bikini. I must have been about sixteen, and of course my mother wouldn't give me the money to buy a thing like that, so, in desperation, I stole it. Of course, then I was faced not only with the guilt,but with the knowledge that I didn't ever dare wear it."
“But Shelley, those are stupid things that all kids do in some variation. Not grown-up, horrible secrets."
“Well, you do have one grown-up, horrible secret. .
“You mean about Steve and whoever the bitch was? Even that doesn't really qualify. I couldn't be blackmailed about it. It's not something awful I did. Just something that would make me feel embarrassed if people knew. I certainly wouldn't kill anybody to keep it quiet.”
Shelley's phone rang. "Yes? Oh, hello, Detective VanDyne. Yes, that would be fine. Yes, she's right here with me. I'll ask. Jane, could you stay here for a while? Yes, that's fine. Ten minutes, then.”
She hung up and said, "He wants to tell me how things are coming along and double check with you about the times you saw people coming and going. He'll be right over.
“Oh, God! I look like I've been pulled through a knothole!"
“I thought you didn't like him?"
“I didn't like him thinking I was a frumpy housewife and I'm sitting here the living proof of it!"
“You've got time to run home. Put on that cherry sweater you bought last week."
“Not the green one with the navy trim?”
Shelley paused a moment, then grinned. "Jane, I wouldn't be your friend if I continued to keep this from you. That green sweater makes you look like you just gave six quarts of blood.”
Jane laughed. "That must be why people are always so solicitous when I wear it. Always asking how I feel.”
She made it just moments before the detective, and was sitting calmly at the kitchen table wearing the cherry sweater and crisp, black slacks when his MG purred to a stop in the driveway. Shelley had been on the phone when she returned and was still talking. Jane had the impression she was talking to Paul, but wasn't sure. As the doorbell rang, Shelley said, "Right, honey. Thanks for telling me. I was worried. Bye-bye." She hung up and said quickly, "Jane, don't mention those pearls to VanDyne. I know who took them."
“Who—?"
“Please, come in," Shelley was saying to the detective.
Jane studied him as Shelley invited him in and fixed him a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. He was just as good-looking as Jane remembered. He was probably a few years younger than she, but, according to the gossip columns, that didn't matter these days. She wondered briefly what sort of money he made, but then quickly reminded herself she wasn't looking for someone to marry, just someone to date occasionally.