A Quiche Before Dying

then, you got my strong teeth and my feet. We have adorable little feet, don't we? You could have inherited his feet and had to wear gunboats for shoes. That was the detective you were out with, wasn't it? Do the police know any more yet?'

“Not much.' She told her mother what he'd said about the difficulty of determining what the poison was. 'Mainly he asked me about the people in the class.'

“It's such a shame that it happened like it did. I don't suppose there's a shred of a chance that it was someone outside that small group.'

“I don't see how. The maid got sick from eating what was left on Mrs. Pryce's plate, so her food had to contain the poison. And since it was the same food we all had, someone had to have put it on her plate while we were all milling around, trying to get served and seated—or while the search for Grady's contact lens was going on.'

“But who? Everybody there seems like perfectly ordinary, nice people. How well do you know all of them?'

“Most of them between slightly and fairly well. I only know Bob Neufield by sight. I don't know a thing about him except that he's an occasional Friend of the Library volunteer. He lets himself get pressed into service when there are cartons of books to haul to the mall for the annual Friends Book Sale. As for Grady, I've met him several times at neighborhood picnics and city council things. He has a company that makes playing cards, and he's always makingcommemorative ones for people and giving them away. Anniversaries, birthdays, the town's founding. He's very generous and well liked. He's single. Rumor has it that he was married once, but his wife died young.”

Cecily nodded. 'What about the exotic gal in the caftan and sandals?'

“Desiree Loftus. I run into her every month or so someplace. She seems to have a lot of money from some mysterious source. Always indulging herself in weird causes and trying to preach them to anybody who'll listen. Cryogenics. Miracle diets. Nudism. Stuff like that.'

“What about the ladies we're having tea with?'

“Ruth Rogers is a fixture here. Been around forever. She used to baby-sit the kids sometimes when they were babies. Wouldn't let me pay her. Said she loved little children. She used to be a nursery school teacher, she said, and missed it.'

“What about her sister?'

“Naomi's lived here for a couple years. I haven't seen much of her; she's sick a lot of the time. She was taken off in an ambulance about six months ago—you can just see the end of their driveway from my kitchen window. She's had a very hard life, I understand. They found each other through some lost relative bureau. I think they're both widowed. Somebody told me Naomi has an impressive cookbook collection. Valuable antique ones, I mean. Or maybe it's Ruth with the collection. I'm not sure.'

“What about the teacher? Missy,' Cecily asked. 'Every time I look at her, she reminds me of somebody, and for the life of me, I can't figure out who.'

“John Cleese?”

Cecily's eyes opened very wide and she started laughing. 'God! You're right. I'm sorry you told me!'

“Don't worry. She knows it. I understand she can sometimes be persuaded to do the 'Dead Parrot' routine at parties. Missy's a terrific person. She has a husband somewhere. She once said they hadn't seen each other for ten years, but never got divorced because they both felt one marriage was more than enough. At least, that's what she said. I believe she's Catholic, so maybe that's the real reason they didn't divorce. She used to write textbooks for English classes, but writes romance novels now. She says it pays better.”

Willard had laid his head on Cecily's leg and was giving her longing looks. Cecily got up, gave him a treat from his plastic box on the counter, and let him out the kitchen door.

“Still, if we can assume you and I and Shelley are innocent,' she said, 'it means one of those nice people killed Mrs. Pryce and nearly killed her maid,' she said.

'Come in, come in,' Ruth Rogers said. She'd dressed for tea in a pale blue dress with flowing sleeves and the inevitable ruffles. She wore what Jane's mother often called 'daytime pearls.' Jane was glad that her instinct had told her to dress up in a skirt and ruffled white blouse for Ruth's tea party. 'I'm so glad you could take time from your visit to come by. Mrs. Grant—may I call you Cecily? I feel I know you from your class project.'

“Yes, please,' Cecily replied.

“And I'm Ruth. My sister and I have so much enjoyed reading the first chapters of the autobiographies. Especially yours. What a very interesting life you've had. Jane, aren't you writing your life?'

“No, I've invented one, but I haven't let anybody but Missy see it.'

“What a splendid idea! Naomi will be down in a moment. She's feeling a little puny today and just woke from a nap. Would you like to see the garden? It's hot out, but we wouldn't be long.'

“You and Mother go. I'd just be eaten up with jealousy,' Jane said. 'I've got my first garden, and between the pets and the bugs, it's a pitiful thing.'

“Organic pest control. That's the key. I'll send some articles home with you. Now, Cecily, I've got some daylilies I want you to see....”

Their voices trailed off. Jane looked around the room. It was extremely feminine without being fussy. Most of the furniture was ornate but delicate antiques; little piecrust tables, a pair of Empire love seats with tapestry upholstery by the fireplace. Jane thought the color of the fabric was probably ashes of roses, a description that had always fascinated her. In front of the fireplace was a lovely peacock feather fan. Off the living room was a room that looked as if it had once been a porch, but was now enclosed to form a combination sun room/greenhouse. Light streamed in the windows that completely surrounded it. There were lush African violets on the windowsills and airy ferns hanging from the ceiling. The furniture was fresh white wicker with plump floral cushions. It was definitely a woman's house. Jane wondered if it had been like this when Ruth's husband was living or whether Ruth and Naomi had gradually made it over to suit their tastes.

Naomi came in the room as Jane was studying a china shepherdess on the mantel. 'Oh, Jane. I didn't hear you come in. Ruth should have told me. Is she showing off the garden?'

“Yes, to my mother. Is that your cookbook collection?' Jane asked, gesturing toward a bookshelf of old books next to the fireplace.

“Why, yes. I've made scones for our tea from one of them. Would you like to see some of my favorites?”

Some of the books weren't even really books anymore, just sets of loose pages with ribbons and strings keeping them together. Others were so formidably bound that Jane found herself wondering about the strength of the women who'd first acquired them. Most were published works, but some of the oldest were handmade to pass from mother to daughter, often with drawings and sketches to illustrate methods of preparing and cooking. Naomi not only collected the books, she tried most of the recipes to the best of her ability—given directions like 'churn until curdled' and 'take a two-month-old piglet . .' She promised to copy down some of the best recipes for Jane.

“My very favorite is a recipe for relish from a Victorian-era book. The author says to season until `it's as sharp as a mother-in-law's tongue, and use in very small portions,' ' Naomi said with a laugh. Jane liked the way Naomi handled the fragile old books—with care, but not fanatic care. In her hands, they weren't just objects of historical merit, but old friends.

“Oh, you've shown off your books without Cecily here,' Ruth chided, coming back into the room with Jane's mother in tow. 'Now you'll have to do it again. Ladies, do sit down while I get the tea.”

Naomi ran through a few of the high points andhad just retold the relish story when Ruth backed through the kitchen door, balancing a huge silver tray. Naomi tried to help her, but Ruth said the tray was far too heavy for her. She set it down on a low coffee table.

Jane's eyes nearly bulged at the sight of the food on the tray. There was a plate of tiny sandwiches cut in fancy shapes with a cookie cutter and sprinkled with a dusting of parsley, another piled high with scones, a bowl of what she later learned was sweet clotted cream. The tea steaming in a small silver tea urn was strong Earl Grey. It was accompanied by tiny bowls of colored sugar. To finish, there were fragrant puff pastries with crushed nuts in a gooey candied syrup over the tops. And tucked among all the dishes were sprigs of rosemary and several tiny glass vials with delicate brilliant yellow flowers and fragile, pungent foliage. 'Dahlberg daisies,' Ruth explained. 'They grow like weeds, and most people don't even know about them.”

Jane could hardly speak. The look, the smell—heaven! While they ate, Ruth and Naomi frankly bragged on