the hospital.'
“Hold it. That's the house. No, she wasn't a nurse. She was a nursery school teacher. I doubt that she had contact with anything more dangerous than peroxide for cuts there.'
“Jane, you're not cooperating. We've got to figure out who did this. Anybody could be the next victim.'
“I want to know just as much as you do. I'm just pointing out that you can't pin it on Ruth because she was a nurse when she wasn't one. Boy, is that ever a bachelor's house,' she added, gazing out at Bob Neufield's plain, boxy home.
The house was sparkling white and the lawn excruciatingly tidy, but the whole had a naked, unfinished look. There were no shutters to frame the windows and give a contrast of color, no foundation plantings, no flowers, not even a rail around the cement slab porch. The windows on the front didn't even have curtains, only utilitarian roller shades.
“Now, that's a man who needs a dozen plastic flamingos to dress the place up,' Jane said with a giggle, then immediately sobered when she remembered the purpose of their visit. 'Now, Shelley, don't ask anything too blunt.'
“What do you mean? I'm the soul of tact.'
“I just mean we want to figure this out, but we don't want to put ourselves in danger. No 'what were you doing the night of blah blah' stuff that makes us sound like detectives.”
They left the car on the street under a shade tree and went to the door. There wasn't a doorbell, so they knocked.
Bob Neufield opened the door and stared at them for a moment, obviously trying to place them.
“Mr. Neufield, I'm Jane Jeffry and this is Shelley Nowack. We're in Missy's class with you.'
“Oh, yes. Sorry.' He smiled, but it was the expression of a man who'd been told it was courteous to smile and didn't quite know why he should.
Jane waited a few seconds for him to step aside and invite them in, but he didn't. 'Ruth Rogers asked me to drop off a sign-up sheet for some library thing.' She handed it to him.
He took it, glanced at the heading, and said, 'Thanks.”
There was another awkward pause. Shelley said, 'If you're not busy, I wonder if we could come in for a moment.”
Count on Shelley, Jane thought.
Neufield looked perplexed, but said, 'Sure. Come in.”
The living room was like the front of the house: painfully neat, but with nothing to suggest real human habitation. The walls were bare of pictures. The furniture was of nice quality, but it looked as if it were set up for a catalog photograph. Everything was shades of tasteful, boring beige. There was a bookshelf, but it contained only books. Very few pictures or ornaments or memorabilia. Only a football trophy and one intriguing picture of a beautiful youngwoman. 'I see you're interested in military history,' Jane said, scanning a few of the book titles.
“Yes, it's been a lifelong hobby of mine. I've even had a few articles published in some of the history magazines,' he said, apparently mistaking Jane's comment for passionate interest. 'I have quite a collection of artifacts, too. Would you like to see them?'
“We'd love to,' Jane said, looking smugly at Shelley as if to say, 'See? I can get people to talk.' He led them down a hallway off the living room, past a bedroom, bathroom, and into the back of the house. This had probably been two good-sized rooms originally. The dividing wall had been knocked out, making the entire width of the house into a single huge area. Unlike the rest of the house, this space was full of objects. Guns, sabers, and shields covered the walls. Glass-topped tables were full of knives. Cabinets were open to display helmets, cannonballs, field surgical kits, and bits of military harnesses. In a quick visual sweep, Jane spotted several grenades, a number of weapons that looked as if they belonged to modern terrorists, and what appeared to be a machine gun, sitting on top of a desk and pointed out the back window. Studying the window, she noticed a thin black line in the glass. An alarm system.
She and Shelley gazed about in stupefaction before Jane managed to croak, 'This is a stunning collection, Mr. Neufield.'
“Thank you. I collect primarily World War One, but I've gotten interested lately in Civil War, and a number of very good pieces have come on the market with the recession.'
“What's this?' Shelley asked of an object on the table next to the door.
“A canister of mustard gas.'
“Oh!' she said, jerking her hand back and moving away.
“Probably inert by now, but I've never wanted to find out,' he said, with a short bark of a laugh. 'You ladies are welcome to look around as much as you like, but if we're going to stay in here, I need to keep the door closed. Humidity control, you see.' He was looking at an elaborate set of gauges on the wall next to the door as he spoke.
“Oh, we wouldn't want to mess things up,' Jane said hastily. The room and its keeper made her uneasy, and she wasn't about to be locked up in it. Bob looked so disappointed that they stayed a little longer, trying to pretend an interest other than terror. Finally Jane guessed they'd stayed long enough to keep from hurting his feelings. 'Well, this is truly a remarkable collection,' she said, moving toward the doorway.
They went back to the living room, and Bob Neufield said, 'Would you like some coffee?' Again, it was as if he'd been told this was part of the script of a play he didn't quite understand.
“We wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Pryce's death. It was almost surely murder, you know,' Jane said.
Shelley shot her a surprised look, as if to say, 'Where were you on the night of blah blah.”
He nodded. 'So I was led to believe. What do you want to talk about it for?'
“To see if we can't figure it out,' Shelley said, casting caution entirely to the winds.
“Why would you do that?' he asked, genuinely puzzled.
The two women looked at each other in confusion.'Don't you want the killer caught, Mr. Neufield?' Jane asked.
“Of course I do, but it's the job of the police to figure it out, and the courts to prosecute. I'd think either institution would regard private interference as dangerous and unnecessary. And I think they'd be right.”
Jane thought Mel might be the author of that part of the script. 'Did you tell them everything you knew, then?'
“Naturally. It was my duty. But I knew very little.' 'Then you didn't see or hear anything suspicious?' Shelley put in.
“Suspicious? How? Aside from the fact that the woman died?' At this he smiled a real smile.
He obviously thought they were acting like idiots, and for a moment Jane wondered if he might be right. 'You realize that one of the people at the dinner surely killed her and almost killed the maid?' she asked.
Bob Neufield reached for a pack of cigarettes, offered it to them, and lit one. 'That's probably true,' he said through a puff of smoke.
He was being so sensible and remote that Jane could hardly stand it. This was like talking to a robot—or a military man. 'Doesn't that bother you?'
“Not unduly. I don't know why it should. I didn't know the woman. I wasn't the perpetrator, nor was I the victim. I was merely a bystander, and so, I presume, were you ladies. Murder is an intolerable act, and must be punished, but that's not my job. I'm sure the police have their forces well in hand. I've always operated on the principle that the best way to help a man do a hard job is to stay out of the way unless asked to assist. You ladies might consider that.”
Jane asked, 'Did you tell the police what she said about you?”
She regretted the impulse the moment the words were out of her mouth. His jaw was set and he paled. His tone was that of furious anger barely held in check. 'Yes, I did. It would be irresponsible to thwart the authorities by withholding any information, however little pertinence it has to the case.' He stood up and walked to the door. 'Ladies, I sorry, but I have a great deal of work to do and can't ask you to stay longer.”
They slunk out.
Once in the car, Shelley said, 'The man's long suit isn't the social graces.'
“It's not exactly ours, either,' Jane said. 'If he's innocent, we've insulted him uselessly; and if he's guilty, we've laid our heads on the block. Jeez, Shelley, we really botched that up. You know, he could start another world
