Jill Churchill - A Midsummer Night's Scream

"Isn't that interesting. I know he loves you and tolerates me. It surprises me that he was so open about what he knew, let alone that he actually asked for our impressions of the people at the theater."

"I was astonished, too. We've nearly always had to force our opinions on him."

Jane took the last sip of her coffee and sighed. "I have to go home and do my two hours of writing and one hour of needlepointing. You know, I'm really enjoying learning how to work on a canvas more than I thought. It has nothing to dowith words or plots. Maybe that's why I like it. It's a different sort of creativity."

"I know what you mean. It's much more interesting than rating caterers, figuring the taxes, buying groceries, and all the other boring things we're forced to do."

When Jane was home and at the computer, after checking the answering machine, which had no messages, she found herself wondering the same thing Shelley had. Why would anyone attack a janitor?

What do janitors do?

They clean up places when the people who occupy them aren't there.

That makes blackmail easy.

Mel was sure to know this, too.

She tried to put those thoughts out of her head and went back to her laptop to do her two-hour stint. She looked over her notes once more and made a note about butlers having the same access to private matters as janitors. Then deleted it. Two hours later she'd done another chapter. She was really on a roll today. She liked starting another chapter as soon as she finished one. It made her feel she'd gotten a head start on the next day. So she worked for another half hour. Then called Shelley again.

"No word from Mel. Want to needlepoint together for a while?"

"Okay. Here or at your house?"

"Mine. I want to be here in case Mel calls."

They sat down at either end of the long sofa in the living room, each having room for their thread containers. Both admired the other 's work so far. Shelley's, however, was done a tiny bit tighter than Jane's. It figured, Jane assumed. Shelley was more intense in almost all matters than Jane was.

As they settled in to work, Jane explained her theory about janitors. "They work alone, and could get away with learning private things about people."

"I don't know," Shelley said. "There could be other motives, couldn't there?"

"Like what?"

"Maybe he was a gossip. Telling other people how sloppy his other customers were."

"That's not enough of a motive for attacking him," Jane claimed. "And how would the person who was slandered know about it? Or really care enough?"

"Okay. But what if he was stealing things?" "Easy. You complain to his supervisor. You don't try to kill him to stop him."

"Maybe in self-defense, if the janitor was fired

and tried to attack the person responsible for it."

"Maybe," Jane said, pickin up the television

remote and turning on Home and Garden TV. "I

like my own theory best. But it doesn't matter. It's

Mel's problem, not ours. Oh, this is my favorite

show. Designing for the Sexes. I like that Michael guy. And you can always tell whose side he's taking. See? He's explaining, ever so nicely, why the man is wrong this time. But he'll be sure to provide one thing the husband really, really wants in order to pacify him."

Mel called around nine that evening. "The janitor has been in surgery almost all day, having pieces of bone picked out of his brain. There's a slim chance he may survive."

"Will he remember what happened?"

"Probably not. He may not really know anyway. The blow was to the back of his head. Most head injuries, I'm told, cause temporary or permanent amnesia. That's all I know now. I'm interviewing his supervisor in the morning about the janitor's normal schedule."

"You have thought about blackmail, haven't you?"

There was a long silence before Mel said curtly, "Of course I have."

"Sorry to ask. I presumed you had," she said cheerfully. "And don't forget, you owe me a really good dinner."

Thirteen

Early Monday, Mel had finally run down the woman in charge of the cleaning staff for the college. She was a surprisingly young Hispanic woman named Rose Havana. She had her dark hair in a neat bun and was dressed in a flattering blue suit.

"Ms. Havana, I presume that you know that one of your janitors, Sven Turner, has been seriously injured," Mel said.

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry about it. He's a good worker. Is he expected to live?"

"He might. The doctors aren't committing themselves yet. He's gone through a long operation and is still unconscious. His vital signs are improving slightly. That's all I know. Could you tell me about him?"

"Please take a seat. My coffee is ready. Would you like a cup?"

Mel nodded.

When she'd poured them both a steaming cup, she sat down behind her desk and said, "I don'tknow him well. I don't think many people do. I know he's good at his job. I frequently follow my staff members on their rounds to check that they're doing what they're supposed to. He is — or was — one of the most efficient."

"How long had he been employed by the college?"

She went to a file cabinet and brought back a folder. "He's been here for almost twenty years."

"Is there anything personal you could tell me about him? Family? Background?"

"Not really. He was probably the quietest person on my staff. That's why he liked being on the night shift. He didn't have to converse with much of anyone. He was very shy. If somebody on his rounds was working late, he'd call in to alert me that he was shifting the order of cleaning. Most of his work was here at the college. He only recently took on the job at the theater. I'm probably the only person he felt comfortable talking to."

"Did he call in at any time about the theater?"

"Yes, he did. A couple of days ago, he said he was at the theater. He'd let himself in and heard two men talking, so he was going back to the college and would do the theater cleanup early the next morning."

"Do you remember what night that was?"

"I'm sorry. I don't exactly recall. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. I don't keep records of things like that. Unless I know someone didn't

show up to do their work, and the department that was neglected reports it."

She went on, "I guess the only other thing I know about him is that he always liked to get everything cleaned up early on Friday. He once told me he liked spending most of his weekends driving around in his car and visiting small towns."

Mel already knew that Sven Turner was forty-seven years old, and where he lived. The janitor hadn't been robbed and the information was all on his driver's license. Mel had already left a message for the local cop on that beat about going to Turner's home.

"Thank you, Ms. Havana. If you think of anything else we should know about Mr. Turner, please let me know." He handed her his card with his office telephone number.

She, in exchange, gave him hers and said, "Please let me know how he's doing, if you would. And would you get our van back to us? We're shorthanded with Sven gone and need it for what I hope will be a short-term replacement."

"As soon as it's been checked for fingerprints." As Mel left her office, Police Officer Don Jones rang through on Mel's cell phone.

"Detective VanDyne, your office gave me your number. I've called on Sven Turner's sister and need your help. Or rather, she does.""I'll be right there. I have the address."

It was in an old but fairly well-cared-for neighborhood near the college. When Mel arrived, Officer Jones was sitting on the front porch. Mel guessed Jones was probably in his late thirties and wondered why he was still on a routine neighborhood job. He was a tall, slightly overweight man, with a nice smile and very well-shined shoes. His uniform was perfection. Not a wrinkle to be seen.