A Farewell to Yarns

something. Working backward quickly, Jane found John Wagner under 'F' for 'family' and got clear to 'C' before finding Mr. Whitman. He was listed under 'Chet's office people.”

VanDyne was watching over her shoulder as she looked through the address book. If Phyllis's method of alphabetizing didn't convince him that the woman was out of touch, nothing Jane could tell him would.

“You'll call, won't you?' she asked when she'd finally found Mr. Whitman's number .

He looked at her with wonder. 'It isn't a matter of social niceties. It's police procedure.'

“Yes, of course. Poor Chet.”

While he was gone, making his calls, Jane went upstairs thinking it was only decent to straighten up Phyllis's belongings if the police were through with them. Certainly Chet would want to come get her things. At the top of the stairs, she heard voices from the bedroom at the left, so she turned into the one at the right. She had time for only two impressions before backing out. One, that it was a tiny bedroom, and two, that all that brownish red stuff all over the mattress was Phyllis's blood. It looked like someone had dumped a gallon or so of paint on the bed.

She stood in the hall, leaning against the wall, fighting down nausea, and realizing for the first time that she hadn't even asked how Phyllis had died. She breathed deeply through her nose, trying to fend off the dizziness that was catching up with her. Suddenly someone grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing up here?' Mel VanDyne asked harshly. 'You're not passing out, are you? Come here. Clear the way, boys.' He dragged Jane through the bedroom opposite the tiny one and yanked open the door to the little deck Phyllis had mentioned. Dragging Jane out into the cold, fresh air, he said, 'Take a deep breath. That's it. Good. Another. Now, lean over.'

“I'm all right now,' Jane said after a moment. 'Really. But I'm freezing out here.”

He led her back inside. It was a large, airy room with a double bed upon which Bobby Bryant was sprawled with a makeshift cold compress on his head. A burly officer was standing beside him, clearly ready to take care of any further misbehavior Bobby might dream up. Another officer was leaning against the wall just inside the doorway. Jane could see into the pink-tiled master bath next to the cozy sitting room area by the front windows of this room.

“I need an address where I can reach you,' VanDyne said to Bobby as he got out his pen.

“I'm staying right here.' Bobby's voice was slightly slurred and very belligerent. 'Old Phyl paid for the place, and now it's mine.'

“We'll see about that,' Mel said, a muscle knotting in his jaw. Apparently he'd taken just as severe and instant dislike to Bobby as Jane had.

She touched Mel's arm. 'I want to tell you something. Downstairs.”

He followed her down the steps reluctantly.'He's the sort of individual who makes me long for the good old days of police brutality.'

“What's he doing in that room?' Jane asked.

“Hell if I know.'

“No, listen to me. It's important, I think. If you knew a house had only a tiny little bedroom and a big master suite and was going to be lived in by a single woman and her teenage son, who would you expect to have the little room?”

Mel paused in midpace. 'The kid. Yeah—'

“Only Phyllis was the kind of sap who let him have the big room. Now, if you'd been a murderer, prowling around in the dark to kill an obnoxious teenager in his sleep, which room—'

“You may have something.'

“Something! That's it, and you know it. I kept asking why anybody would want to kill Phyllis. Well, nobody did. They wanted to kill Bobby and got the wrong person in the wrong room. Look, we've only known Bobby a few minutes each, and we'd both adore knocking him off. Imagine how people who knew him better must have felt about him. But Phyllis—nobody could kill Phyllis. Slap her out of sheer exhaustion, maybe, but not kill her.'

“Possibly.'

“You're only saying that because it was my idea. You know that's the solution.'

“Good God, woman! Even if you're right, which I'm not admitting, it's not a solution. It's just a line of inquiry.'

“That's 'Dragnet' talk again. I'm going home. When you want to know more, you know where I live.”

On that victorious note, she marched out the door.

She thought she heard a chuckle just before she slammed the door.

Twelve

Jane got in the station wagon and started the •' engine but found that she couldn't drive away immediately. Surprise was fading, and shock was setting in. Poor Phyllis was dead. Really and truly dead. In spite of her relatively calm discussion of motives with Mel VanDyne, Jane was deeply shaken. Shivering violently and wondering why her hands and feet felt oddly numb, she reached out and turned the car's heating system to high. She didn't trust herself even to drive for a few minutes.

Poor, poor Phyllis.

And the worst of it was, it was a mistake. More than just the enormous moral mistake of any murder; she was a victim by mistake. Jane was sure of it. Nobody could possibly want to kill Phyllis, but practically anyone who'd ever known Bobby would have to fight the impulse. Someone had given up the struggle—and killed Phyllis in error. It was, in a sense, Bobby's fault. It wasn't enough for him to ruin her good, longstanding marriage and make her show herself up as a soft fool. He was responsible for her death, at least secondarily.

Or was it only secondary?

Could Bobby himself be the murderer instead of the intended victim? He was probably capable of it, Jane judged from her slight and very unpleasant acquaintance with him. And he was showing no remorse. He hadn't pretended to give a damn about Phyllis when she was alive and wasn't acting the least bit sorry she was gone. But A tap on the window interrupted her train of thought. Swallowing a scream of surprise, she turned to see Mel VanDyne at the car window on the passenger side. She motioned him to get in.

“Are you all right?' he asked, seating himself and twisting sideways to talk. 'I shouldn't have let you go like that. I was forgetting that she was your friend. Do you want me to take you home?'

“Thanks, but I'd just have to find a way to get my car back later. I'll be fine in a minute. I needed to sit and think. It isn't that Phyllis was such a terribly good friend, you know—”

Why did she feel she had to be meticulously truthful with him? What difference did it make?

“It's upsetting even when it's a stranger,' he admitted. 'Very upsetting.'

“Then why do you do it? This job?”

He smiled, showing an indentation alongside his mouth that wasn't quite a dimple, but near enough. 'To bring evildoers to justice? That's an embarrassing thing to admit. It sounds so unsophisticated, but it's true. Funny. I think you're the first person who ever asked me that.

Except for my parents, who said, many times, 'You're going to be what?' “

Being truthful sometimes paid dividends, Jane thought. 'What will happen now?'

“I've got my men hunting down her husband. We'll question everybody in the neighborhood. We'll check on her background, the kid's, the husband's, the neighbor's, the kid's friends'. All routine stuff to start with.'

“Can I help?' Jane asked.

He cocked an eyebrow. He had great eyebrows. Great teeth, too. Jane always noticed people's teeth. His were very white and just irregular enough to give his expression real distinction. And with that hint of a dimple that showed so rarely .. .

“I mean some kind of help that you assign and approve of,' she said, trying to put aside thoughts of how attractive he was.

“As a matter of fact, you may be able to. I've been thinking about the husband. If, as you say, there was just a temporary rift in the marriage, he's going to take this hard. He's got family and business friends, but he might well want to talk to you, since you spent that last day with her. I don't figure the obnoxious kid will be much comfort. Can you be on hand? To help with funeral arrangements and that sort of thing, if he wants?'

“I'd be pleased to. About Bobby—'

“You're wondering if he killed her himself, aren't you? So am I. Don't worry, Mrs. Jeffry. These things do occur to me.'