war with that stuff in his back room.'
“There's something that went through my mind....' Shelley said closing her eyes and motioning for Jane to keep quiet while she tried to recapture it. 'Yes! I remember. Did you see that old canvas bag thing on the table to your left?'
“I don't know. What was it?'
“It had scissors and ration packets and a little vial. A kit. It made me think of something I saw in my grandfather's attic when I helped my mother sort it out. I showed the canvas kit to Paul, and he said the soldiers in World War One carried some kind of antidote to the poison gas. And sure enough, there was a vial with a needle in it in my grandfather's kit. Paul said it was dangerous to keep around. It was something they injected in themselves to counteract the effects of the poison gas—'
“And you think it could be a poison?'
“Isn't it possible?' Shelley asked, starting the car.
“I'm wondering, too, if the stories you hear about spies having a cyanide pill on them might be true. Would that sort of thing turn up in a military collection?'
“I don't know. I think cyanide works instantly. At least, it always does in books. But it would at least be worth asking VanDyne about. The police probably had no reason to look around Neufield's house. They weren't pretending to be guests, like we were. God, we behaved badly, Jane. Stupidly.'
“Did you see that picture on the bookshelf?' Jane asked. 'It was about the only photograph in the house. A pretty young woman.'
“So?'
“So, I don't know. I just wondered if it was relevant.”
Even Shelley's driving was subdued, a first in Jane's memory. As Jane got out, Shelley said, 'Here. You forgot your book.”
Jane looked at the copy of Mrs. Pryce's self-published diary that Shelley was handing her. 'It's not mine.'
“It must be. It's not mine. My copy is on the guest room desk. I put it there as I was leaving.'
“I must have picked this one up with Katie's lunch sack without realizing it,' Jane said. 'See you at class tonight.'
“Do you think we ought to go?' Shelley asked. 'What if he was the murderer and we just made him mad?'
“Shelley, it's not as if he doesn't know where to find us anytime he wants. We'll just turn down any homemade cookies he might bring and pass around.”
They laughed uneasily and Jane went indoors. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, glancing through her copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography. Jane's copy was sitting on top of a cookbook next to the sink.
She looked down at the third copy in her hand.
13
Jane drove them to class that night in her ratty station wagon, having had all Shelley's driving that her nervous system could take for one day. 'Shelley, this must be your copy of the book. It isn't ours,' she said as they got into the car.
Shelley held up her own book in silent denial.
“I must have accidentally stolen someone else's,' Jane said, perplexed. She stuffed the book into her purse.
They were the first to arrive at the city hall classroom, and Jane approached each of the class members as they came in. Bob Neufield was the first to arrive. She debated whether she ought to speak to him after their last run-in and almost kept quiet, but the extra book kept nagging her. Taking a deep breath for courage, she approached him. 'Mr. Neufield, I think I may have inadvertently picked up something of yours,' she said, holding out the book.
“I don't think so,' he said, opening the briefcase he'd carried to class. There, in with the manuscript folders, was a copy of Mrs. Pryce's autobiography.
“Oh, it must be someone else's,' Jane said. She took a deep breath and plunged in to an apology. 'Mr. Neufield, I'm sorry if we offended you this afternoon. It certainly wasn't our intention.”
He looked at her coldly. 'No offense taken. I un? derstand that ladies of your age with a lot of extra time on their hands sometimes get crazy notions.”
Jane couldn't have been more insulted if he'd slapped her. She stared at him, trying to formulate a reply, and he looked back at her, smiling. This time it was a real smile, clearly victorious. Jane turned and went back to her seat.
“Jane, what's the matter?' Shelley asked. 'Your face is crimson.'
“I can't talk about it now,' Jane muttered, her voice quavering with anger and embarrassment. Shelley and Cecily went back to discussing different kinds of apples, a subject that seemed to engage their entire interest at the moment.
Did the bastard think she was menopausal and that her hormones barely excused her? Did he picture her lounging around all day, eating bonbons and thinking of ways to waste a few more hours? On the other hand, he might know perfectly well she didn't, but had gotten back at her in exactly the most vicious way possible. Mad as she was, she secretly thought she might deserve this comeuppance. After all, if he was as innocent as she, he had good cause to be offended at their questioning earlier.
Jane fumed silently for a few minutes and was starting to calm down a little when Ruth Rogers and Naomi Smith came into class. She approached them with the book. 'No, it doesn't belong to either of us,' Ruth said. 'We found it so depressing that we threw our copies out. I didn't want to have anything like that in the house. Horrible woman. It's not nice to speak ill of the dead, but—”
Grady wouldn't claim it either. 'Mine's in my car. I keep hoping I'll lose it, but I haven't gotten luckyyet. It was still in my car when I got here. Just pitch it, Jane. Nobody cares.”
But Jane was starting to care and didn't know quite why.
“Missy, is this yours?' she asked when Missy came in.
“I hope not. The last thing I need is another one.' 'No, I mean it. Did I pick it up from you somehow?”
Missy looked at her oddly, but looked in the canvas bag she carried her class materials in. She pulled out a copy. 'This is the only one I carry around. The rest are still in the carton in my car. I'm going to set it out with the trash tonight. Are we all here? No, we're missing Desiree Loftus. Does anyone know if she's coming?”
Ruth raised her hand. 'She called and asked me to tell you that she won't be here. She's not feeling well.'
“Hung over,' somebody muttered. Jane looked around but couldn't tell who'd said it.
“All right,' Missy said, taking her place at the front of the room and commanding their attention. 'We've had some upset here, so I want to briefly review some of the points we've already covered, then I'm going to go on to some observations and suggestions on chronology, flashbacks, flash forwards, and—”
Jane rummaged in the saddlebag purse for her notebook, still troubled by the mysterious extra copy of Mrs. Pryce's book. If it didn't belong to any of them, how did it get in Shelley's car? And why?
By the time class was over, she had pages of notes of ideas for organizing Priscilla's story. Listening to Missy's lesson, it occurred to her that it would be much more interesting if she started somewhere near the end of Priscilla's life, and suggested mysterious and dramatic things that had happened to her, then started back at the beginning.
A picture had formed in her mind of Priscilla as an old woman, dignified and aloof, living in near isolation in a house in the woods. And by her side, a wolf. A tame wolf, looking up at his mistress, ready to spring to her defense should an enemy come. She didn't know where the wolf idea had come from, but she liked it. If she started with this scene, with a lone horseman approaching—Priscilla calm, perhaps with a weary smile of welcome, the wolf alert, but looking to her to read her reaction to the visitor
“Will you wake up!' Shelley said, nudging her as they came out of the building.
“Sorry, I was just thinking about—' Then she spotted why Shelley was prodding her back to the present tense. Mel VanDyne's little red MG was parked across the lot, and he was approaching.
“Later, Pris,' Jane murmured as if she had to excuse herself to a real person. 'Hi, Mel. I wasn't expecting to
