The House of Seven Mabels

she jumped back from the plug, fell, and hit her head.'

Before leaving the scene, Mel went upstairs to survey the damage to the Sheetrock. Sure enough, most of it was already contaminated by

Carl and Evaline's having patched up most of the damage. Dudley was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and glaring around the room. 'You'd have thought they'd of had the sense to tell me about this. I wish I'd never taken on this job.'

'I wish I hadn't been assigned to it,' Mel admitted.

As he was approaching his car, the scene-of-the-crime crew showed up again. Mel left instructions as to where a coal chute must have come out. 'It's concealed with a nasty bank of prickly shrubs you're going to have to cut down. But look carefully for anything fresh that's snagged in them.'

By the time Mel got back to the station, he had a call from the head of the group. 'We found mostly animal fur. But there were a few bits of plain white cottony paper. The sort of stuff you'd find in those outfits that painters sometimes wear. Available at almost any hardware store. The lab will have to confirm this, of course. No fingerprints inside or out.'

'I guess I should be thanking you for this information, but I can't bring myself to do so. Sounds to me like we're striking out again.'

Twenty-one

A day staying off her foot made jane a new woman. She'd gone out to the garage and found one of the old crutches so she could move around a little without touching her right foot to the floor. By evening, she could honestly report to Shelley and Mel that she didn't need to go back to the hospital to have it X-rayed again.

Mel dropped by to check on her after dinner and asked if there was any kind of dessert around.

'Just grocery-store cookies. But even Shelley says they're edible. Finish them off before I have to.'

He sat down with a glass of milk, polished off the last three cookies, and sighed. 'I'm sick to death of that house of Bitsy's. It's been three weeks.'

'It hasn't,' Jane said with a laugh.

'Okay. Maybe a week, but it seems like a lot longer. And there's still no irrefutable evidence of a serious crime.'

'Not even Sandra's death?'

'Except for her missing purse, there's nothing solid to make anyone think it was murder. It could have just been an accident.'

'It's more than the purse, Mel. She was disliked by nearly everyone working for her. And who knows how many other people she's crossed paths with who had even better reason to hate her.'

'But Jane, the world's full of obnoxious people who irritate the hell out of everyone and nobody murders them. They just get older and more obnoxious. I have an eighty-four-year-old great-uncle who's a living example.'

'Didn't the bomb scare count as a crime?' Jane asked.

'Only marginally. It wasn't a real bomb. If we knew who did it and were in England, we could get him or her for 'wasting police time.' The rest of it could count merely as damaging pranks. Even that would be cause only for a lawsuit, not a criminal conviction.'

'It wasn't Thomasina's missing toolbox, I assume?'

'No. Hers was a big yellow plastic one,' Mel said. 'The one in the basement was steel.'

Jane brushed the cookie crumbs onto a napkin she wadded up to throw away later. 'The thing I don't understand is why the pranks have continued beyond Sandra's death — whatever the cause of it. I assumed they were all aimed at discrediting her, but now it looks as if Bitsy's the target.'

'I suspect you're right, but again, there's no proof of it.'

'What about her ex-husband?'

'He's sleaze,' Mel said, getting up and roaming fretfully around the kitchen as if looking for a solution — perhaps under the morning paper on the counter or under a pot. 'And he makes no attempt to disguise his contempt for her. And it's rumored that some of his clients are big-money mafia. But it's only rumor and we don't have any evidence that would allow us to get at his records. Even if we did, he's bright enough not to leave evidence of personal conversations in his files.'

'Have you interviewed any of Sandra's friends from her feminist group?'

'Dozens. The most hostile group of women I've come across. They regard her as a saint.'

'To be a real saint, you have to be dead,' Jane said. 'I wonder if they thought so when she was alive. Oh, I never thought to ask. Did you check the dust marks on the steps to the basement?'

Mel just stared at her for a long moment. 'First pictures taken. And somebody with far too much free time had recently swept them. The only thing on the steps was a bit of mud from the shoe of the doctor who pronounced her dead.'

Jane stared back. 'Don't you think that's odd?'

'Of course it's odd. There was a broom down there. And before you ask the obvious question, yes, it was fingerprinted and was absolutely clear of prints.'

'You don't really think this was an accident, do you?' Jane asked.

'I don't think it for a moment, but I can't disprove it, either.' His pager beeped and he said, 'It's forensics. May I use your phone? My cell phone's gone all staticky and someone in the office is trying to replace it and get the same number.'

When he returned the call, he kept nodding and looking glummer by the minute. Hanging up, he said, 'The scene-of-the-crime guys were right. The only new stuff on the damned bushes was a paper-based substance with a few threads. From a coverall that's sold in, oh, maybe a thousand paint and hardware stores just in the Chicago area alone.'

'No fingerprints?' Jane asked.

'Do you have any idea how common latex or plastic gloves are? You can get them in most drugstores, even if you have to purchase a box of hair color. Even more easily in paint and hardware stores. I liked the good old days when gloves were leather or fabric. At least they'd sometimes leave some kind of print or evidence. I guess I'm just going to have to start another whole round of interviews tomorrow and see if there's any triviality we've missed. Do you mind if I skip out on you and spend what's left of the evening going over what I already have so far?'

'I don't. But I wish I could help. Shelley and I know the workers on a more friendly basis than

you do. We haven't a clue in spite of that, except the missing purse. I can't remember if I told you that when we first met Sandra it was at a restaurant and she had it slung across her shoulder and never turned loose of it. She even got her fork tangled in the strap, but didn't let it go. I thought even then it was sort of odd.

'When most women eat out, they set it next to them. And when they're working at an office or job site, they lock it up somewhere. Under the seat of their car sometimes. Or in a drawer to which they have the only key. But Sandra never let hers leave her body.'

'Maybe she was one of those people who always carried a whole lot of cash around,' Mel speculated.

Jane shook her head. 'In my experience traveling with my parents all over the world, my folks always had paper money concealed in a thin pack tied underneath their clothing. I don't think it was cash she was protecting.'

'Then what would a woman keep in a purse that she couldn't keep in such a pack?' Mel asked.

Jane shrugged. 'Drugs? A notebook of important data? A datebook? A weapon such as a sharp knife or gun?'

After Mel had gone, Jane called Shelley. 'Come on over if you're free. We need to toss around some ideas about the missing purse.'

When Shelley arrived, she said, 'You know, I just realized it wasn't always the same purse.'

'No?'

'She had two in the same style. One was a dark blue or black. The other was the exact same style, but in a sort of dark taupe. She must have been concerned about being color savvy,' Shelley said.

'I think you're right. She had the dark one at the restaurant and the brownish one that she normally had strapped across her chest at work. I hadn't realized that until you mentioned it. But, Shelley, neither of them was huge. Large, but not the enormous sort of thing you'd take on a plane with all your medications, a change of