Jill Churchill - Silence of the Hams

“Mom?" a distant voice bellowed.

“Out in back," Jane bellowed back.

Mike came out the garage door. "You forgot orange juice."

“No, I didn't. I got it. Look in the fridge."

“I did. And on the counters and even in the car. It's on the receipt, but it didn't get home," Mike said.

“Phooey! The sacker must have left it out. And I guess you can't live without it?"

“I'll drive you to the store, Jane," Shelley offered. "I need to pick something up anyway."

“So much for not going shopping for another two weeks," Jane complained. "I didn't even make it for two hours.”

She went in and got her purse and they took off. Jane's gallon of orange juice was still sitting at the checkout she'd gone through, waiting for her to come back. The clerk didn't even want to see her receipt. Shelley went off to find the cream cheese she needed for a recipe she was trying out and Jane waited in front of the store.

And waited.

She finally got impatient and went back into the store to find Shelley. Reaching the dairy case, she discovered Shelley in conversation with LeAnne Doherty. Shelley gave Jane an I wondered-when-you'd-get-here look.

“Hi, Jane. Sorry I wasn't in the shop yesterday when you stopped by," LeAnne said. LeAnne was a plump, pretty woman in her thirties with naturally curly reddish hair and freckles. She still had on her church clothes and a grocery cart full of mostly house brands. A careful shopper, Jane thought.

“Oh, we just wanted to say hi, nothing important," Jane said.

“You've heard about Emma Weyrich, I guess," LeAnne said, lowering her voice.

“We have," Shelley said neutrally. "Awful, isn't it?"

“Are you still dating that detective, Jane?" LeAnne asked.

“Uh-huh," Jane said warily.

“I guess he tells you all about his cases.”

“Afraid not," Jane said.

“Is he investigating Emma's death?" Le- Anne asked, undeterred.

Jane saw no reason for concealment. "Yes, he is."

“How was she killed? This morning's paper j ust said a blow to the head.”

“Some kind of barbell thing, I think," Jane replied. That, too, would soon be public information if it wasn't already.

“I guess they went over her apartment pretty carefully," LeAnne said. "I wonder if they found anything — helpful.”

Jane shrugged. "I have no idea. I know they search really thoroughly."

“So you don't know what they found?”

“Me? No. Mel wouldn't even consider shar‑ ing inside information with me," Jane lied. I wish he were here, Jane thought. He'd be impressed. And very interested in LeAnne's questions.

“ It must be really interesting dating a detective," LeAnne said in a terribly perky tone.

“It's weird to be dating at all," Jane said.

“I know! When Charles and I were separated, I dated a bit and it was strange. My ice cream's melting. I guess I better run along. Nice visiting with you." On this almost hysterically chirpy note, she wheeled her cart away hurriedly.

Shelley said, "Do you suppose she thought she was being subtle?"

“Did you see her hands?" Jane asked. "She was clutching the handle of the grocery cart so hard I expected it to crumple."

“The only thing her questions didn't tell us was which color folder was hers," Shelley said.

“Poor LeAnne," Jane said. "She probably had one an inch thick. Think of all the dirt she must have dished about Charles during the divorce."

“But Jane, could anybody as pathetically unsubtle as LeAnne commit an actual murder and manage to even get out of the room without giving herself away? After the performance we just saw, I can imagine her running out in the hallway and looking for people totell, 'You haven't seen me here, have you?' “

Jane laughed. "There would have to be a huge amount of evidence to convince me she could carry it off. Still, for as silly as she was just being, there's more to her than that. Just look at the dedication and determination it's taken for them to pull themselves out of bankruptcy and get a whole new business started? Not to mention the intelligence it takes. It can't be all Charles's doing."

“Sure it could," Shelley said, picking up the cream cheese she'd come in for and moving toward the checkout. "And maybe that's what she's afraid of. That Charles was the one Emma had an appointment with.”

Jane fell silent while Shelley made her purchase. Once they were back in the car, she said, "You could be right, you know. I hardly know Charles, do you?”

Shelley shrugged. "No. Paul had some dealings with him years ago when Charles was still with that investment company or mortgage company, whatever it was." Shelley's husband, Paul, was, among other things, the owner of a chain of Greek fast-food restaurants that he'd started from scratch.

“What did Paul think of him?"

“He said Charles was bright and ambitious enough, but didn't seem to think he was spectacular in any way. A nice guy. I'll ask him again, but I doubt he'll have much more to add. It was about the land for one of the restaurant franchises and I think they met only once or twice over some routine details. Not a situation where you'd get to know someone intimately.”

Jane nodded. "Shelley, would Paul have any special insights into the deli's business?"

“He might, but it doesn't seem to have anything much to do with the deli anymore, does it?"

“I don't think so, but who knows? Conrad and Sarah have led a pretty strange life and Stonecipher might have known something about them, too."

“How could he? They only came back here recently and as soon as they did, they started the deli and he started his zoning war. It's not likely they ever considered being clients of his."

“True. But maybe he dug up something about their past when he was trying to shut them down. Drugs or something? They lived a pretty hippie-dippy life for a long time according to Grace. Maybe they didn't pay their taxes or something like that."

“Yes, but if he had anything on them, wouldn't he have used it to apply pressure on them before the deli could open?" Shelley asked.

“I guess you're right. He really did pull out all the stops to try to keep them from open‑ Shelley started the van. "I feel like a rat in a maze that hasn't any opening. Every time I think about this, I end up at the same dead end."

“Which is?"

“Stonecipher's death," Shelley said, backing out ruthlessly and ignoring the uproar of honking this caused. "It's too coincidental that both Stonecipher and Emma would die under suspicious circumstances without there being a connection. But why would anybody want to make a natural death look like a murder?”

14

They'd gone only two blocks when Jane noticed a car at the side of the street. The hood was up and an older man was looking into the engine. "Hold it, Shelley," Jane said. "Isn't that Foster Hanlon? Let's stop and help. We might pry something interesting out of him."

“I'd like to pry the old bastard's guts out of him," Shelley said.

“Come on, Shelley. You can stand a few minutes. Keep in mind that he was with Stonecipher at the deli. Right on his heels.”

Grumbling, Shelley pulled over and backed up, and the two of them got out of the van. Hanlon was a small, wiry man who could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. He had thinning yellow-white hair; a stiff, erect carriage that was almost military; and a face that was a road map of fine wrinkles. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a white shirt so heavily starched it probably crackled when he moved.

“Mr. Hanlon, have you got engine problems?" Jane asked.

He straightened up so quickly that he bumped his head on the hood. "Oh, yes. Well, I think so. I'm sorry to admit that not only do I know very little about cars, but I don't even know who you are.”