“Not quite, but I was a lot smarter by then and a much better liar. I did have a tape recorder at the time that I used a lot. I told him I'd been planning to divorce him for a long time and had recorded many of our conversations just in case he decided to contest the divorce action. Went on to explain that I'd made copies of the tapes, put them in my safe deposit box along with a notarized, dated transcript done by another attorney. I really spread myself thin on the story. I blabbed about how I had a client who said a competing television station was considering getting their own 'action reporter' and mentioned what a coup those tapes would be for them as their first story."
“You're good!" Jane exclaimed.
“It seemed to work," Sharon said modestly. "I don't think he entirely believed me, but he couldn't take the chance of losing his nasty little career. I didn't hear from him again. But there was something else that I couldn't undo…"
“Which was?" Shelley asked.
“During the time he was bugging me, he decided he could exert pressure on me by investigating my friends and neighbors. Nothing he could be prosecuted for, just hints. 'So-and-so's been divorced three times; wonder if his wife knows that?' he'd say. Or 'Such-and-such has a couple shoplifting arrests in her past. Isn't that interesting?' “
Jane had been leaning forward, listening intently. Now she flopped back on the sofa and exchanged a look with Shelley. "That answers one question, doesn't it? Shelley and I were wondering how he could get invited to the party one day and pretend to have an exposé on the neighborhood ready by the next day. He already had material!"
“Have you told the police all this?" Shelley asked sharply.
“Of course I have," Sharon said. "I have nothing to conceal and no sympathy for Harvey or the person who killed him — whoever that was."
“I presume you're not going to tell us who he said these things about," Jane said. "And frankly, I don't think you should. But you did tell the police, right?”
Sharon nodded. "I told them what little I could remember. But I was so disgusted with most of the junk he told me that I made a real effort to put it out of my mind and a few of the things I do recall were about people who have moved away."
“So you have no idea who might have killed him?" Jane asked.
“None. And I don't care.”
The pack of cigarettes was open now and she was rolling one of them between her fingers.
Sixteen
"Do we believe her?" Shelley asked as they V walked back to her house.
“I'd like to," Jane replied, "but she admitted she was a good liar. Maybe she's lying to us and the police about her marriage and background."
“It makes sense," Shelley said. "If it's a lie, it's an elaborate, well-thought-out one. It might be that most of it is true, but parts aren't."
“Which parts?”
Shelley said, "I have no idea. But did you notice how calm her voice was — and all the while she was ripping into that pack of historical cigarettes? Let's assume she's telling mostly the truth. The weak points are, first, that she did get rid of him like she said, but then he started harassing her again and she killed him."
“I don't think she was dressed for it," Jane said.
“Dressed for murder? You mean she wasn't wearing a Ninja outfit?"
“No, she had on heels and a fairly tight skirt the night he was killed. It would be damned hard to hoist yourself up an icy ladder in that getup."
“But not impossible," Shelley said. "Her boots were probably in the front hall of your house. Put them on, dash outside, hitch up the tight skirt. Yeah, yeah. Unlikely."
“What's the next weak point she could be lying about?"
“Not knowing who her ex-husband had the dirt on. Or not remembering. That doesn't ring true. If you told me Mrs. Whatsis down the street was the head witch of a coven, I'd sure remember it for a long time."
“But Shelley, we're snoops—"
“No, we're curious women who are concerned with the welfare of our friends," Shelley said.
Jane didn't quibble. "Okay, we're curious, but what's more important, we actually know most of the neighbors. She doesn't seem to be really chummy with much of anyone because she's gone so much of the time. It wouldn't be too surprising if she didn't recall the dirty details years later about someone she never even met or heard of before.”
They'd reached Jane's house. "Paul is taking the kids to a fast-food dinner and a movie tonight," Shelley said. "I don't have to fix dinner. Can you fling some edibles at your kids and we could go eat together?"
“My kids are stuffed to the gills with leftover cookies. They probably won't even consider food for hours. It's not quite five yet. Let's gonow. I'll make sure of where they are and what they're doing and be over in a minute.”
Jane went in the kitchen door and was heading upstairs to refresh her makeup when Katie called down the steps, "Hey, Mom, did you see the boxes?"
“What boxes?" Jane turned and looked toward the front door. Three or four battered cardboard cartons were piled up. "Oh, that must be the stuff from your grandparents. They've been fretting about them not arriving in time."
“Can we open them?”
Jane continued up the steps. "Sure. They always wrap the individual gifts inside the big boxes. Put the gifts under the tree. And no peeking or shaking."
“You're not going to lecture me again about that little china tea set I broke when I was a little kid, are you?"
“Any second now. You guys aren't hungry yet, are you?”
Katie blew up her cheeks and shook her head. "Food — yuck!"
“Then I'm going to go out with Mrs. Nowack. How about I bring back barbequed ribs?”
Jane took their dinner orders and hurried to Shelley's house. The kids had stuffed themselves with cookies, but she hadn't had any and lunch was a long time ago. She was starving. Shelley already had her car warming up in the driveway.
“Since we still look fairly decent, let's go someplace kind of nice," Shelley suggested.
There was a new French restaurant a couple miles away they'd been wanting to try, but hadn't pulled themselves together and put on panty hose and heels to give it a shot yet. Once again, they were almost the only customers because they were so early. A very handsome young waiter in a tuxedo seated them, actually holding their chairs and flipping open generously sized blue napkins that he laid reverently on the women's laps.
“Wow!" Jane whispered when he left to get their menus. "I could get used to this. Especially if all the waiters look like him.”
He was back in a moment with the menus, which were leather-bound and enormous. He had another server with him, this one in a short white jacket. He carried a silver tray with two exquisite goblets of water. The waiter explained the specials of the day with loving purple prose and a lot of French terms Jane should have understood and didn't.
“What are those in English?" she asked.
“Translated loosely," he said, lowering his voice, "meat loaf and stew. But the best meat loaf or stew that you'll ever taste."
“Shelley, let's have one of each. And we could trade."
“Jane, we do not pass food back and forth here," Shelley hissed. "Your parents would have strokes if they heard you suggesting something so gauche."
“I could give you each a half order of both," the waiter suggested.
“You're a good man," Jane said. "And why don't you just give us a wine you recommend so I won't feel silly about ordering it?”
That got him to crack a smile.
When he was out of earshot, Jane leaned forward and said quietly, "These fancy plates on the table — chargers, I think they're called?”
“What about them?"
“Well, nobody ever eats on them. They take them away when they serve dinner, so do they have to be washed?”