All this time it had been Joyce Greenway. A woman like herself. Like herself. That was the painful part, not even the fact that they knew each other.
That frosting job of Joyce's certainly concealed the same occasional gray hairs Jane had. The tummy tucks couldn't erase stretch marks. Dam-mit! Joyce's hormones were running down at a rate equal to everybody else's. Joyce drove the same teenage children in car pools, she had the same cleaning lady, the same civic committees and concerns, the same orthodontist for the kids. The times they'd sat around that waiting room together while braces were being tightened!
It hadn't hurt as much before — not that Jane had known there were degrees of pain in such a rejection — thinking she'd lost him to someone young and free-spirited. Male menopause, Shelley called it. The mad, male urge to prove fading virility with a young woman when his wife was showing her years, and so was he. That wasn't fair, but it was vaguely understandable. Jane had pictured the woman as different from her in every possible way. Young, firm-bodied, with no repressions whatsoever. No responsibilities beyond pleasure. She'd told herself, No wonder I lost him to someone like that. I couldn't compete with youth.
But Joyce—!
Why Joyce? What in the world did she have to offer that Jane didn't? Aside from a better figure, prettier hair, a softer voice, a more expensive wardrobe?
And why hadn't she suspected? Of course, Joyce was a fine actress. She'd been trained to convincingly present another persona on the stage, and could apparently use that skill off the stage as well. Naturally she'd been able to conceal her feelings. Acting the neutral, nonsexual, nonthreatening neighbor at block parties and PTA functions. Had she and Steve sneaked off for a quick grope behind the cotton candy machine at the junior high carnival? Had their hands touched while turning hamburgers on the grill? Had they exchanged sultry looks across the small desks on back-to-school nights at the grade school? That time he went to help her with a flat tire — had he been fumbling around with her blouse buttons instead of the car jack?
She heard a car engine approaching and sat up, furiously wiping her eyes.
The minivan cast a shadow Jane recognized. Shelley opened the passenger door of Jane's station wagon. "May I come in?"
“If you don't mind being seen with a woman whose mascara is all over her chin."
“You aren't wearing mascara. You can't fool me." She got in and closed the door. "For whatever it's worth, Joyce looks worse than you do. Here." Shelley had unearthed a travel pack of tissues from her purse and handed them to Jane. "Mop up, honey. Got any car pools you want me to pick up this afternoon? It's almost that time."
“No, thanks, I'm off today. Did you get her out of my house?”
“Yes. She actually got so hysterical I had to slap her. Just like in the movies. I've always wanted to do that, but I never thought I'd enjoy it so much.”
Jane smiled weakly. "I wish I'd had the chance. Shelley, the truth — did you know before?”
Shelley hitched herself around sideways and looked at Jane with a horrified expression. "Good God! No, of course not. Do you think I would have let that happen to you? I'd have hated telling you, but I'd have done it. Even if I only suspected."
“How did you find me here?"
“I just guessed."
“You did not. You're a terrible liar."
“No, I knew you came here a lot last winter. I saw your car a couple of times when I came to the shopping center."
“This was a Christmas tree farm. That fir by my patio came from here. Why would he want her? Her?"
“I can't imagine and neither should you. It was insanity.
“Male menopause.But why somebody just as old and busy and ordinary as me? I thought it was some nubile young thing who wore crotchless panties every day and still had her breasts up under her chin, where ours started out."
“Madness, Jane. You can't explain it. Nobody can."
“Now that I think about it, I wonder why she considered it. Steve wasn't such a noticeable treasure. He wasn't any better-looking than her husband, and he certainly didn't have as much money. I have the feeling the Greenways are rolling in it."
“Maybe she just wanted the attention," Shelley said. "You know her husband never has time for anything with her or the family. Steve was good about that.”
Jane tilted her head back so the tears wouldn't run down her face. "He was. That he was.”
After a long moment, Shelley said, "You got her off the hook with Edith, you know. That's why she was blackmailing her — threatening to tell you about her and Steve. You've done the bitch a favor.”
Jane started chuckling, then laughing. Shelley joined her. Finally, when they'd both calmed down a bit, Shelley said, "I don't suppose she'd have killed the woman to keep it from you.”
Jane looked perplexed. "'That was how it started, wasn't it? I'd completely forgotten about the murder. I don't suppose she would have killed Edith. But, Shelley, I don't care anymore. You were right when you said it was the job of the police to figure it out. I'm not doing any more snooping. God only knows what else I might find out!"
“Couldn't be anything much worse. Not that I'm encouraging you to pry into any more secrets. The next one might be something that would drive me to this parking lot. Jane, there is something you need to think about, though. How are you going to resolve this?"
“With Joyce? What's to resolve? It's over. Steve's dead and neither of us have him. God! No wonder she's been so damned sweet andconcerned about how I'm getting along without him! It was sheer guilty conscience. And remember what a mess she was at his funeral?"
“Yes, we talked about it. How she was a better friend of yours than we knew — to be so upset on your behalf. It wasn't you she was sorry for. It was herself!"
“Do you suppose her husband suspects?"
“Probably not. He might not care if he did. For what comfort it might be, that must have crossed her mind as well. But, Jane, to get back to what I was trying to say. You've got to think out what your attitude toward her is going to be."
“I don't understand."
“Well, if you're going to make a point of hating her in a public way — which I wouldn't blame you for — people are going to wonder why."
“So what? I don't care if they know she's a husband-stealing slut."
“I'm not so sure. It's fine to make her look as bad as she is, but think what it'll make you look like.”
Jane stared at the ragged Christmas trees. A crow had landed on the top of one and was swaying back and forth drunkenly. "Do you have any cigarettes along?"
“I brought yours. Here.”
Jane lit a cigarette, coughed, and rolled down the car window to throw it out. "That tastes awful. I see what you mean about Joyce. She'd look like trash, which she is, but I'd look pitiful, like just what I am — a woman who couldn't keep her husband's interest and lost him to a neighbor."
“Right. It's sort of noble and tragic and romantic to be a widow. At least no one blames you for it or thinks less of you. But, a deserted wife? You know how people are. They'd start wondering what Joyce had that you didn't."
“That's what I'm wondering too."
“Oh, Jane! Don't say that. You need to start getting out in the world a bit more. Meeting men who can reassure you of all your good qualities that Steve had gotten too familiar with to appreciate.”
Jane scrubbed at her damp face with the crumpled tissue. "That's nice of you to say. But—" She glanced at her watch. "Where I need to get now is home. The kids'll be there in a few minutes and they'll wonder where I am. I like to be home when they get there."
“What are you going to do about Joyce?"
“Nothing.Yet. I'm just going to avoid her and let her stew in her own juices while I make up my mind."