The Merchant of Menace

“He did, indeed.'

“So he just fell off the roof?”

Jane debated with herself for a moment.

Surely the newspaper or television reporters had already gotten wind of the fact that Lance King was probably murdered. After all, the bright yellow crime scene tapes around the Johnsons' house were pretty much of a tip-off. No point in keeping Thelma in the dark. 'I don't think he managed it by himself,' Jane said.

“What do you mean?'

“That it's likely that he was pushed off the roof.”

Thelma gasped. 'Murdered? Right next door to you?'

“Better there than here,' Jane said.

“Oh, Jane. Don't even say such a thing. I had no idea! Who did it? Who killed him?'

“I don't know. The police are investigating.”

Thelma shifted gears again. 'Jane, I want to talk to you about this business about your monthly check —”

Fortunately, Shelley interrupted at exactly the right moment. 'I think everybody's here, Jane.

They're all stoked up on cider and coffee. Want me to invite them to eat?'

“Yes! But I'll do it,' she said, frantic to escape Thelma. She'd spent most of a week gearing herself up for the earlier confrontation, but wasn't ready for another round.

Everyone was full of praise for Jane's table and the variety of goodies. Jane had tiny plates set out for sampling the sugary feast. Later everyone would be given pretty little boxes to take home a mixture of cookies. Jane was sorry the tradition had been allowed to lapse for several years and glad that she'd been the one to revive it. While the guests were gushing and choosing, she went into the living room. As she passed by the stairs, Addle was just coming down. She started to say something, thought better of it, and merely nodded to Jane with a faint, artificial smile. Jane smiled back.

Shelley was sitting by herself on the sofa. Jane joined her and whispered, 'Addie's just been upstairs.”

Shelley grinned. 'Did she say anything?”

“Not a word.”

They giggled like schoolgirls.

“It's such a joy to see you enjoying your own party,' Catherine Pargeter said, sitting down awkwardly in the squishy armchair. 'Oh, dear, it's probably going to take a crane to get me back out of here.”

Catherine was in her late fifties, a bit on the heavy side, and was vaguely grandmotherly, although she had no grandchildren. She had the same fair hair and ruddy complexion as her son Bruce. Jane didn't know her terribly well, but liked her. Catherine was deeply, seriously into genealogy and when Jane and Shelley developed an interest in the subject, Catherine had been more than willing to answer their very stupid, beginner questions. And she did so with good cheer and grace.

“I was sorry you couldn't come to the party last night,' Jane said. 'Although it didn't turn out to be very festive.'

“I just couldn't, dear. Not with the threat of that awful man being here. I can't say I'm glad he's dead, but I can't say I'm sorry, either. Bruce told me he explained it all to you and Shelley.'

“He did and it broke my heart,' Jane said sincerely.

“It's a long time ago. One can't dwell on heartache,' Catherine said. Then she brightened in a deliberate manner. 'How are you getting along with your genealogy, Shelley?”

While Shelley and Catherine chatted, Jane watched as the others drifted back to the living room. Addie and Thelma were in conversation again, both of them still looking a bit cranky. Since the only thing they had in common was Jane herself, she was glad to be spared hearing them. Sam Dwyer had been cornered by Julie Newton. Julie's bouncy perkiness seemed to disconcert him. He almost flinched every time she made one of her grand gestures — and she was making a lot of them. Sharon Wilhite and Tiffany Johnson were trying to find some everyday subject for conversation and apparently finding it heavy going. One would speak and the other would look interested but perplexed. Then they'd reverse the process. Then, as Jane observed them, they both laughed. Apparently the death of the ex-husband of one woman, the site of that death being the home of the other, hadn't really harmed either of them.

If Lance King were looking down (or up, more likely) on this scene from wherever his mean spirit had gone, he must have been severely disappointed at how little his passing had meant.

Fifteen

The guests started drifting off around three? thirty and Jane was reminded of one of the things she'd always loved about the cookie parties. Everyone always brought a lot more cookies than they were supposed to and took away only a few more than specified, with the result that the hostess ended up with a hearty supply of everyone else's baking efforts. She'd probably gain ten pounds by New Year's, but what was January good for except dieting?

Jane stood at the door, hugging an afghan around her shoulders to keep warm, bidding everyone good-bye, making sure they had the right hats, gloves, boots, and their box of cookies. Mel arrived again as the last stragglers departed. 'Hi, Janey,' he said brightly. 'Guess what?”

She grinned at him. He'd cheered up considerably since the last time she'd talked to him. 'Okay… you got a raise? A Christmas bonus? An Oscar for being my leading man?'

“You aim too high, Janey,' he said, giving her a light peck of a kiss. 'I got my furnace fixed. On a Saturday!”

It was all Jane could do to keep from shouting, 'WHOOPEE!”

“On a Saturday,' she said calmly. 'Imagine that.'

“So I can take Mom off your hands.”

Jane could afford to be gracious now. 'Oh, she hasn't been a bit of trouble, Mel.'

“Oh — well. Maybe she'd rather stay here, then.'

“No, no, no! I mean, I'm sure she wouldn't. She came to see you, Mel. Not camp out here with all the kids and noise.”

Men could be such dim-bulbs about their mothers.

Addie, still deep in conversation with Thelma, was informed that she was moving and went upstairs to pack. And probably to have another shot at moving the furniture, Jane thought. Shelley saw to it that Thelma was levered out the door without getting another chance to take Jane to task about the Great Check Delivery Debate and was in the kitchen putting soiled plastic plates and j cups into a trash bag when Mel and Jane oined her. 'Excellent party, Jane,' Shelley said, giving the trash bag an expert twirl and closing it up with a plastic gizmo. 'Almost no mention of the late and not very lamented Lance King.'

“It was a nice party, wasn't it?' Jane said. 'Mel, I've got a ton of leftover cookies. Want some?'

“Just to help you out.'

“Speaking of Lance King, how's it going?' Shelley asked.

“Not well. Not well at all. Ginger must be right about him keeping everything on disk. There was nothing on the laptop of any use. I guess I told you that. And there wasn't anything on his office machine except a word processing program with files identified by date, but without any content.'

“Without content?' Jane asked.

“Empty as a baton twirler's head,' Mel said.

“Watch it or some feminist group will come after you,' Shelley warned him. 'I'll have you know that I, Shelley Nowack, once took baton twirling lessons. Well, one lesson.'

“Not much good at it?' Jane asked.

“I gave myself a bloody nose with the knob on the end and my mother threw the baton away,' Shelley admitted. 'Seriously, Mel, aren't you making any progress?'

“I didn't say that. We're still gathering evidence, doing interviews. Time-consuming, but necessary.'

“I don't guess you're going to tell us who you suspect?' Shelley said.

“Nope. Because I suspect everybody at the moment.'