tennis racket when Jane arrived. Obviously, this car problem was going to interfere with more than her car pool plans. 'I'm so sorry, Jane.'
“No problem, I was up and out anyway. Do you need help getting your car to the shop or anything?'
“No, they're supposed to be sending someone with a tow truck pretty soon, and I haven't got anything going today that can't be canceled. Stop back by and tell me what Shelley's found out.'
“I can't, Dorothy. I've got Edith coming myself today. Maybe later on.'
“You're having Edith? Why?'
“Well, I'm told she's terrific and I need somebody.'
“I keep hearing how wonderful she is, Jane, but I had her for a month once and it was a waste of money. The woman just slouched around, pretending to work. 'A-lick-and-a-dab' cleaning, as my mother used to say. I complained to the Happy Helper people and they sent me somebody else.'
“How odd. Robbie Jones says she's terrific, and so does Mary Ellen Revere. Even Joyce Greenway swears by her, and you know what a cleaning fanatic she is.”
Dorothy laughed. 'I went over once, and Joyce came to the door apologizing for taking so long. She'd been in the storeroom dusting the luggage, she told me. I thought she meant she was getting ready to go somewhere, so I said, 'Oh, why is that?' Do you know what she said? She said because it was Tuesday, of course.”
Jane was still chuckling when she dropped Todd and his car pool off at the grade school. She detoured by way of the grocery store to make a quick foray for cleaning materials. She'd meant to take a careful inventory the day before, but had naturally forgotten about it in all the upset. Not knowing what she might be nearly out of, she dashed down the aisle, grabbing one of anything that might clean floors, tubs, sink stains, carpet spots, ovens, windows, even silver polish. The stuff cost a fortune. She consoled herself with the thought that it would all come in handy sooner or later.
She passed the Staplers' house. The red MG was parked in front. VanDyne must be questioning everyone. Her attention was soon diverted as she passed the Happy Helper van going the other way at the end of the street, and had a horrible shock as she pulled in her driveway. It was like yesterday, but a mirror image — her house instead of Shelley's. Standing at her kitchen door was Mrs. Thurgood!
Jane slammed on the brakes and the woman turned. No, of course it wasn't the dead cleaning lady, but she was of a similar build with frizzy, blond hair. That and the blue uniform gave a scary impression.
“You must be Edith,' Jane said, hoping the fact that she was carrying a huge, heavy sack would account for her breathlessness.
“That's right,' Edith said, without offering to help. She merely stood back like company as Jane struggled to fit her key in the lock while balancing the cleaning materials. This didn't bode well, but then the woman's job didn't really start until she got inside. Jane knew her opinions of the moment were being influenced by Dorothy Wallenberg's claims. Still, it was odd that people had such widely different impressions of Edith.
While Jane showed her around and mentioned a few of the things she was particularly concerned about having done, Edith just sauntered along behind her, making the occasional affirmative noise. Jane couldn't figure out whether the woman took it all as a matter of course, or whether she simply wasn't interested in what Jane was saying. Neither of them referred to the events of the day before, even though it was obvious Edith must have known what had befallen her substitute. Jane kept feeling she ought to say something sympathetic, but didn't know what.
The tour was mercifully interrupted by the phone. Jane left Edith to strip the beds and ran downstairs to answer it. It was Uncle Jim.
“Honey, I just read the papers. That was right on your block, wasn't it? Are you all right?'
“You mean the murder? Yes, it was next door, at Shelley's, but I'm fine. Just kinda shaky.'
“You want me to come stay with you until this is sorted out? I don't like to think about you and the kids there by yourselves.'
“That's nice of you to offer, but you'd have an hour and a half drive each way to work.”
“I wouldn't mind.'
“Well, I would. No, I'm okay. Really. See you Sunday.”
She had only a half hour before driving her blind kids, but she took the time for a quick shower and sprayed on a tiny, precious bit of the Giorgio perfume to which she'd treated herself for her birthday. These kids, having lost one sense, had developed the others to a high degree. It was a running joke with them to guess what sort of soap and shampoo she'd used, and they could often tell if she'd been to the store recently because of the scent of onions or cleaning materials or whatever she'd carted around in the station wagon.
As she flew through the kitchen, she found Edith leaning on the counter, gazing out the window and languidly sipping at a cup of coffee. There was no sign of her having done any cleaning at all.
Jane had a delightful morning with her kids. They identified the perfume right away, and knew about the cleaning materials. One of them also pointed out that there was a weak spot in the upholstery in the back seat, and the muffler didn't sound at all good.
The previous spring Jane had told the teacher that, come the new school year, she wanted to start learning how to help these kids in a more concrete way than simply acting as taxi driver. So, during class, she was blindfolded. 'You can't pretend you're blind, Mrs. Jeffry,' the teacher said. 'You won't be really motivated unless you experience not seeing.”
Jane acquired a few bruises trying to get through a maze of chairs using a cane, and discovered she had insensitive, if not downright numb, fingertips when she was introduced to braille. Still, as she drove home, she felt she'd gained valuable insight into what these children faced.
The experience gave her a lot to think about. Back in February, when Steve died, her great-aunt May had phoned to say, 'My dear, I'm going to tell you the best advice I got when I was widowed and I want you to follow it. Do nothing for a year. Make no changes, no decisions that aren't necessary. Too many new widows dash into things they shouldn't before they've come to terms with their loss.”
It was, she'd discovered, good advice, and she was glad she'd taken it, but now, little more than halfway through the first year, she was feeling impatient. She must
It was probably too late now, but by the spring semester she was going to start some courses at the local junior college. She wanted to find out what else she might like and be good at besides mothering. Working with the blind children might be exactly that avenue.
When she got home, the kitchen was actually clean. Not spotless, by any means, but better than when she left. She had come in very quietly, not exactly admitting to herself that she wanted to sneak up on Edith, but doing so just the same. Dorothy's remarks about the cleaninglady just slouching around kept echoing in her mind. She wanted to know at what pace the woman worked when she was unsupervised. The vacuum cleaner was sitting in the living room and the magazines were straightened up. She ran her finger over the coffee table and sighed. No dusting had been done. There was no sign of Edith.
She went upstairs, hating herself for being so stealthy. No sign of her there, either, although the beds were made. She must be doing the family room in the basement. The last step creaked — it always did and Jane had forgotten — so she abandoned her sneaking. 'Edith? Are you here?”
From the small adjoining office, Edith answered. 'You're going to have a mildew problem down here if you don't get some circulation. Spiders too.' She emerged, carrying a feather duster, and frowned sourly at Jane.
“I thought I told you I didn't want anything done in there.' Jane was irritated. The office was off limits to everyone, even the kids. Steve had worked there, and she'd taken it over last winter for bill-paying and just plain hiding out. She considered it her own ward of a sort of personal mental health institute. It was the one place she could go and be absolutely alone when the pressure built up. She resented any intrusion. She was sure she had told Edith not to do the room, but Edith must not have been listening. Neither did she appear chagrined at the mistake.
“Those webs will get in the typewriter and make a mess of it,' Edith said, clumping up the steps. It was clear that the discussion was over as far as she was concerned.
Suddenly Jane felt unaccountably depressed. She'd come home so buoyant, and now, because of a trivial irritation, she was deflated. These spells had come over her frequently last winter and spring, but over the summer,
