A Farewell to Yarns (17 page)

“We'll worry about that if it happens," Shelley said briskly. "There won't be a bazaar if we don't get back to work.”

Nothing more was heard from next door. The music stopped a few minutes after the police arrived. The four women worked in peace all afternoon. The only interruption was John Wagner dropping by to tell Jane that there would be a funeral service for his stepmother at ten o'clock the next morning. Fortunately, Fio na's maid, Celia, showed him in direct ly to where Jane was working, and he didn't cross paths with either Fiona or Albert.

“Dad thought about having her buried from the old church they went to when they lived in the city, but I talked him into having it out here." He made no reference to the events of the night before, and neither did Jane.

“Do you want me to come along to the fu neral?" Shelley asked when he'd left.

“Good Lord, no! You promised to fight the crowds with me to do some Christmas shopping tomorrow afternoon. That's all anybody could ask of a friend."

“I'm
so
glad you realize that. Now, about pricing these fruitcakes—”

Shelley had to drive a car pool at three, Suzie at three-thirty, and Jane at three forty-five, but each returned to finish off one job or another.

They sat down for a last slice of Fiona's banana bread and a cup of coffee at five, confident that they had the bazaar situation well in hand.

If only the rest of life could be handled by hard work and organization, Jane thought longingly. How unutterably sad that Phyllis couldn't have been with them. It was exactly the sort of day she'd have loved. What had Mel VanDyne been doing all day while they sorted and priced Christmas knickknacks? Jane wondered. Was he any closer to finding Phyllis's killer?

Nineteen

Jane got up Saturday morning far
earlier than
necessary. It was refreshing to enjoy the illusion of having the house to herself. The kids were all sleeping late, so she didn't have to worry about running out of hot water before she was through showering, about fighting Katie for the hot curlers, or about having to drop everything and drive somebody to school before she'd booted up her brain. No music blared from stereos, no cars honked impatiently in the driveway, nobody ran through the house wildly searching for lost books or lunch money or permission slips.

Bliss.

The first order of business was to get ready for Phyllis's funeral. She was going to wear her charcoal gray suit and black silk blouse. Shelley had bought it for her for Steve's funeral last winter, and this was the first time since then that she'd worn it. She got it out and put it on with a certain amount of dread. After all, the associations were grim. Yet she looked in the mirror and was surprised to see herself smiling a bit. This wasn't the same woman who wore the suit last February. That Jane had been blotto—emotionally and physically wiped out. Everybody had been so sympathetic and mistaken then. That was the hardest part—to act the role of a woman who had lost her loving partner, when inside she was raging with rejection, furious at his disloyalty, and despising herself for her own stupidity and failure. But this was a new woman wearing the charcoal suit. Under Shelley's dictatorial guidance, she'd streaked her hair, gone in for regular perms, lost a little weight, and learned a bit about makeup, although mascara still made her feel like she had raccoon eyes. "Eat your heart out, Steve," she told the mirror and felt a little tingle of vindication. It was only eight-thirty when she went downstairs for a quiet hour of finishing up the afghan. While she was feeding the animals, she heard the soft purr of a car in the driveway and was surprised—and pleased, for once—to see the red MG. Imagine Mel VanDyne catching her at her best, instead of her worst. It might be a sign.

When she opened the front door to him, she was gratified to see the look on his face.

"Mrs. Jeffry—Jane, I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said.

“Not at all. Come in." She led him to the living room, deliciously aware that he was staring at her. "Please, sit down. Could I get you anything? Coffee?"

“If you have a Coke around, I could use a caffeine fix."

“I can do better than that. The kids have something that's got tons of caffeine. It's advertised that way. She came back with a glass of ice and a can of something with a lightning bolt on the label.

He took a sip and grimaced happily. "If you don't mind my saying so, 'you look mauwvellous! "

“Thanks," Jane said with a laugh. "Nice of you to notice. I know it's considered very old-fashioned to wear dark colors for funerals, but I just can't throw on a pink dress for one. My mother taught me too well."

“Does your mother live here?”

She wondered why he was being so chatty but decided not to look a gi ft hor se in t he mouth. "No, my mother lives all over the place. Right now she and my father are in a little country in Africa. They're State Department. My dad has a positively spooky gift for language. He can start speaking almost anything the day he first hears it, so they've spent their life all over the world, wherever our government wants to hear what's being said."

“Did you grow up that way?"

“Oh, yes. In fact, when my husband and I moved here, it was two years before I could bear to unpack the last suitcase and put it in the basement storage. Force of habit—I was so sure I would have to move again. What
are
you doing here this morning?”

She'd taken him off guard. "Why, I —I wondered if you wanted a ride to the funeral. No, that's not the truth. I wanted to ask you some questions, too."

“About what? I've already told you every thing I know about Phyllis."

“It isn't about her." He paused a moment, then went on in a brisk, professional tone.

"This morning, about five, when a trash-hauling company picked up their dumpster behind the shopping mall, there was a body beside it. Bobby's.”

Jane felt her bright perkiness fade as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her.

"Oh, no. How did he die?"

“Stabbed. From behind. Somebody must have taken him completely by surprise."

“Behind a dumpster at the mall? What on earth was he doing there? Besides gett ing killed?"

“That's probably all. I imagine he was supposed to meet someone.”

Mel was silent as Jane rummaged in the end table drawer until she found a stale cigarette. He leaned forward and lit it for her. She sat back and took a long drag. "It's odd," she finally said, sensing that he was waiting for her to say something. "I'm not surprised or sad, because he was probably the most hateful, obnoxious person I've ever known. But in another way, I am sorry. It's just not right to stab people in the back because they're awful."

“I've always sort of felt that way," he said wryly.

“It certainly blows my theory of Bobby being Phyllis's killer. Unless Chet—" She caught herself thinking out loud.

Mel VanDyne laughed at her discomfiture. "Do you honestly think that wouldn't occur to me? Don't be so careful what you don't say. It won't stop me from thinking, but what you
do
say could help."

“A l l r i g h t . U n l e s s C h e t k i l l e d h i m a s revenge."

“I take it you've talked to Chet Wagner."

“Oh, yes—" Jane told him about the evening she and Shelley went over to pack Phyllis's things and found themselves in the midst of a dispute between Bobby and the Wagner father and son.

VanDyne was dumbfounded and displeased. "Why in the world didn't you ask an officer to go with you? You could have put yourselves in a dangerous situation."

“I don't know. It sounds a lot stupider now than it did at the time. I guess we just weren't thinking. Still, it was an interesting experience, to say the least.

“Did you get the feeling that Chet Wagner honestly believed Bobby was responsible for his mother's death?”

Jane thought for a long moment. "That's hard to say. I'm certain he held Bobby to blame for t he
c i r c u m s t a n c e s
wh i c h b r o ught a b o ut he r death, but to be ho nest, I t hink he 'd ha ve mauled him on the spot regardless of witnesses if he'd thought Bobby actually killed her. He was furious, but it was Chet himself who kept John from attacking Bobby."

“Did John Wagner think Bobby was responsible for her death? Is that why he tried to attack Bobby?"

“No, it was because Bobby said Chet was going to be blamed. I think he was outraged on his father's behalf, and of course Bobby had hit on his worst fear. Bobby was being absolutely revolting."

“Hmmm. Tell me again about this will business. When I
inquired, Mr.
Wagner said his will and his wife's were with a lawyer on the island, and he authorized us to request a photocopy. It should be here today. He seemed quite cool about it. Of course, that was before Bobby dropped his bombshell."

“But if there was another more recent will, the earlier one wouldn't be valid anyway. Actually, I'm not at all sure it wasn't all bluff, just to further insult Chet. The only convincing part of it was that he said she came out of the lawyer's office with a 'blue folder thing' she was putting in her purse. That sounded true, or at least possible. I don't think he had the wit or imagination to make up convincing little details like 'blue' and 'folder.' He'd have just said

'papers' if he was making it up, I think. I knew a girl in school who was a really good liar, and she got away with it because there were always all kinds of tiny, vivid, believable details in her stories. You bought the details, and before you realized it, you'd bought the whole story."

“I think that's characteristic," Mel said shortly.

Jane realized she'd been wandering off the main point again, a habit that annoyed him.

"However, there wasn't a will or anything that looked like one in her things," she continued.

"We
went through everything—not snooping—well, yes, snooping—and the only paperwork was in a needlepointed case. One envelope
in
there contained memorabilia. Family pictures, high school yearbook, birth certificates, that sortof thing. The other envelope was all craft stuff. Patterns, order forms from yarn shops."

“Yes, I saw that."

“I thought you probably had. Her purse, too?"

“Yes. There wasn't anything incriminating in it. If there actually had been a will and she'd had it in her purse in New York, where could it have gone? Was it a direct flight, or did they go someplace else on the way here?"

“I believe it was direct. She could have put it in a safe deposit box there or mailed i t to someone."

“She could, but why would she?”

There was another long silence before Jane said, " Hadn't we better get going? Did you mean it about driving me to the funeral, or was that just a ploy to catch me of f guard so I'd burst into hysterical tears and admit to killing Bobby?"

“I've got better ploys than that. Yes, I meant it.”

Jane went up and told a very sleepy Mike that she was leaving. Once in Mel's car, she was glad—for a change—that she wasn't tall and leggy. She'd have had her knees up around her ears if she were. "What do you know about Bobby's death? Weapon, that sort of thing?" she asked him when they were under way.

“Next to nothing. He must have gotten a call or made some arrangement to meet someone there. We didn't have the phone tapped—an oversight, damn it all. He was stabbed. The weapon removed from the scene. It probably h a p p e n e d b e t w e e n o n e a n d f o u r i n t h e morning."

“No better clues than that?"

“Afraid not. Jane, this was too late for the morning papers, and I'm assuming nobody but the murderer knows about it yet, so I don't want you to say anything about it at the funeral.”

Jane felt deflated. "I get it. I'm an excuse for you to be there observing how everybody's behaving.”

He put his gloved hand over hers for a second. "Only partly, Jane.”

She gazed out the window. Mother always said, "Half a loaf is better than none." But this was the soggy bottom half; she wanted the crusty, buttery top half.
Twenty

If
Mel
VanDyne had expected emotional fire-works at the funeral, he was disappointed. The widower behaved with cool decorum. John W a gner st a yed close to hi s fa ther, looking vaguely belligerent but otherwise no more upset than any stepson who was only slightly fond of his late stepmother. Jane noticed both of them casting a quick eye over the assembly once or twice, but whether they were looking for Bobby or merely curious about who was in attendance, it was impossible to say. John sat next to his father, and on his other side there was a mousy woman Jane remembered from volleyball days, presumably the downtrodden Joannie. Beside her there was a lean, red-headed man in his thirties who leaned across Joannie and whispered to John a couple of times. Jane assumed that he was the brother from the London office. Closest to the family were a number of muscular, stern-faced young men. Jane realized that they must be bodyguards. Of course a man of Chet's money and international standing must have them, so why did she find their presence so foreign and alarming? Other than the family and the bodyguards, the funeral was well attended by a lot of extremely well-heeled people, presumably Chet's wealthy friends who had flocked in from whatever fashionable watering holes they normally frequented. The women's clothes were magnificent, and the men all looked like aging movie stars. Jane tried to picture Phyllis socializing with these people and failed. Next in the pecking order were the small le gion of people she assumed were Che t's staff and business associates. They were identifiable by their yuppie looks and fawning demeanors.

There wasn't a tear in the crowd. If anyone genuinely grieved for Phyllis —besides Chet—they were keeping it well hidden. Jane sat listening to the bland service, obviously conducted for a woman none of them knew well, and tried to find a feeling of true loss somewhere in her own heart. All she found was guilt.

The only interesting part of the ordeal, as far as Jane was concerned, was the fact that a couple of network news crews had gathered outside the church during the service. Chet, John, John's wife, Joannie, and the red-headed Wagner son had taken places with the minister at the door of the church in a sort of reverse receiving line. Being in the back row, Jane was among the first out. As Chet opened the door for her, a cameraman leaped into action, focusing on Jane as she came down the steps clutching Mel's arm to keep from taking a header on the icy steps. Accustomed to cameras, VanDyne snarled, "Buzz off, boys," and shoved her unceremoniously through the crowd and into the red MG.