“Okay, but late in the day."
“What time?"
“Four?" Jane suggested. "Want to meet somewhere?"
“No, come to my apartment," Emma said curtly. She took a little notepad out of her pocket to write an address and handed it to Jane. "Be prompt," she warned Jane, handing her the slip of paper before turning and disappearing into the crowd.
“What was that about?" Mel asked. He'd gone ahead a ways before realizing he'd lost her.
“I haven't any idea, but it was rude. I've been summoned to her presence. Four o'clock tomorrow and I'm not to dawdle around and be late. She probably noticed the way my skirt fit and wants to harass me into more exercise," Jane said, trying to make light of her anger.
“Don't go," Mel said.
“Why not?”
Mel sighed. "I'll tell you later. When we have some time to talk."
“She's a suspect! You think she killed Stonecipher!"
“Shh. Keep your voice down. No, she didn't kill Stonecipher.”
It took Jane only a moment to absorb the implication of this statement. "If you know she didn't, then you must know who did. Has there been an arrest?"
“Jane, keep quiet. Later.”
She knew that tone. She stopped asking questions.
Even though she'd worked on the decorations, Jane was astonished when she saw the final transformation of the school. By half-closing her eyes, she could imagine she was in a fancy resort hotel. The materials might be sheets, crepe paper, and dime-store glitter, but the overall look was glitzy and fun. After an hour or so when all the grandmothers, uncles,and little sisters had left, the kids settled in to have a good time.
Someone had thoughtfully provided comfortable chairs at the door Jane and Mel were to guard, and the two of them settled in. They were, unfortunately, just across the hall from the room where the country music band was playing. Jane wasn't much of a fan of country music and decided she'd either be a convert or a raving maniac by the time the night was over. She told herself to remember that it could have been worse. They could have been cheek by jowl with a rap group. Mel slouched and took a nap despite the noise and bustle around them. This performance amazed Jane.
She'd brought along a book to read — one of her many-times-reread Dorothy Sayers mysteries. Comfort books, as she thought of them. None of the kids showed the least interest in trying to go out the door, and she was soon immersed in Lord Peter's adventures.
A little before midnight, the band took an hour break, and the hallway emptied. The quiet woke Mel up. He roamed away in search of food and eventually came back with chicken salad sandwiches, chips, and soft drinks. They ate in silence, and when they were done, he said, "You're being awfully patient. It's sort of scary.”
Jane wiggled her fingers as if barely re‑ straining herself from strangling him. "Mel, I can't stand it anymore. If Emma Whatsername didn't kill Stonecipher, who did?"
“Nobody," Mel said.
“What do you mean? I saw him. He was dead. His wife is getting ready to bury him."
“He died of a heart attack. Natural causes.”
Jane sat staring at Mel for a long moment. "But — but if he died of a heart attack, why did somebody make it look like he'd been murdered? Mel, that can't be right! He must have had the heart attack when the rack was pushed over on him. That caused it.”
Mel shook his head. "Nope. The coroner was very sure. He had been dead for at least ten minutes, possibly longer, before the rack went over. I got the word just before I left the office for the graduation."
“How — why—?"
“You sound disappointed. I thought you'd be pleased to know," Mel said. "You've been in such a froth about Mike working where there'd been a murder. Now he's not."
“Oh, I am pleased. But horribly confused."
“Me, too. But at least it's not a murder investigation anymore."
“No, it's even stranger. Considering how many enemies Robert Stonecipher had, you'd think whoever found him dead would have started organizing a victory parade, not tried to make it look like he'd been killed. Why would anybody make it look like murder?"
“I have no idea. But it's not a homicide investigation anymore and I can file all my notes about who was where and when."
“Why did you tell me not to go to Emma's? Not that I intend to anyway."
“Because I knew you were considering it in order to snoop. And there's no need."
“But surely that's not just the end of it."
“No, I'm sure there's some legal violation in the matter of pushing the rack over on a body. Malicious mischief or something. But it's not my case anymore. I need to stretch my legs for a bit. Do you mind if I go take a look at the setup here? Then I'll spell you if you want to take a nap.”
Jane, deep in confused thought, waved him away. "Sure. Go ahead.”
She was still brooding on this bizarre twist when Patsy Mallett, the head of the party organizers, came by on her rounds. "How's it going?" Patsy said, taking the chair Mel had vacated and briefly setting down a notebook — her party bible, she called it — on the floor.
Patsy was a large, gap-toothed, dynamic woman in her fifties. Nearly eight years ago, she had first come up with the idea of the school-sponsored all-night party. From humble, non-mandatory beginnings (Jane had heard that the first year only twenty rather nerdy kids had been desperate enough for a social activity on graduation night to attend), the party had become THE thing to do and it was all due to Patsy's tremendous energy and planning. She had the rare gift of being able to juggle fifteen committees without ever seeming flurried or harassed. She greeted every crisis with a smile and a shrug and the comment "Not to worry. It'll work out." And it always did with her at the helm.
“Nobody's tried to make a break for freedom," Jane assured her with a smile.
“No, they don't much anymore. But we promise the parents the kids can't leave unless a parent fetches them, so we have to guard every door. You have two more children coming up through the grades, don't you, Jane?”
Jane nodded reluctantly. She knew where this was going.
“And one's a sophomore next year, right?" Patsy went on. "If you'd choose a committee you'd like to serve on next year, then the year after you might co-chair it. Or at least be ready to co-chair when your third one comes along."
“Do you know my friend Shelley Nowack?”
Patsy's eyes lit up. "I've heard of her. I don't believe we've ever met though. I hear she's a very efficient person."
“She is. She's the kind of chairman you need. I'll talk to her about what committee she'd like and serve with her."
“Great. We'll get together next week.”
“So soon?"
“Jane, this doesn't happen overnight. Next year's committee chairs are already working. Contracts with some suppliers have to be signed years in advance."
“I'm in awe of how you manage this," Jane said. "Shelley will love knowing you.”
“I'll share my secret with her," Patsy said, grinning.
“Secret?"
“Yes. You know each committee has two co-chairs. I tell people that's in case one gets sick or has to move. But the fact is, I was a history major in college, and I've always remembered something I learned about Henry VIII."
“Henry VIII?" Jane said, believing she'd misheard.
“Yes. People think he was a womanizing bumbler. But he wasn't a bumbler. He was a very effective monarch, and he managed it by pairing enemies," Patsy explained. "See, kings had to send off ambassadors to all the other European powers, and while the ambassadors were out of the king's sight, he didn't know what they were up to. Sometimes they weren't as competent or as loyal as they could be and went off on their own agenda instead of the monarch's. So Henry always sent two ambassadors together and made sure they didn't like each other. That way they were forever tattling on each other and he knew exactly what both of them were up to. And since each knew the other was tattling, each did the best job he could to show off and impress him. Henry got efficiency and comprehensive reports.”