Jill Churchill: A Quiche Before Dying

Jim Spelling and Cecily Grant, as always when they got together, kept up an amusing stream of chat‑ ter about various adventures when their colorful lives had crossed.

“Remember the time they served sheep's eyes and you had to swallow them whole because you couldn't stand to bite into them?" Cecily said to Jim. "I'll never forget the look on your face."

“And the time in Russia when you went out to inspect a farm in that roly-poly snowsuit and you fell down and couldn't get up and brought three other people down who were trying to help you," Jim countered.

“Mom, I hope you're going to write all these down," Jane said, starting to clear the table. "Are you writing a book?" Jim asked.

“Jane and I are taking a short class on writing autobiographies," Cecily explained. She glanced at her watch. "And we better get going or we'll be late for the first one."

“I'll stick around here and wait for Katie to come home," Jim said. "Then maybe we can talk some more when you get back. Janie, where are those tools I gave you for Christmas?"

“On the basement steps. Why?"

“I saw you fighting the garage door. Thought I'd look it over while you're gone."

“Uncle Jim, you're a guest. You don't have to fix things."

“But it's not going all the way up."

“That's all right," Jane said. "I'm thinking about teaching my station wagon to limbo."

“Jim, do you remember General Pryce?" Cecily asked. She was rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher.

“Pryce? Pryce? Oh, yes! The old bastard with the battle-ax wife.""The battle-ax is in our class," Cecily said. "Knowing that, you're going? You've got a higher capacity for self-torture than I have. I wouldn't get within ten miles of that woman. She's dangerous." "Dangerous?" Jane asked.

“Yeah, that kind of wicked person drives people over the brink and makes them do things they shouldn't. Evil is contagious, you know.”

4

The class was to meet in the basement of the city hall, which was an overly cute Tudor-style building adjoining the mall. It had been built only three years earlier, and there had been the usual public carping about the expense and style. Its critics said it looked like a Disneyland city hall, needing only a dwarf at the entrance. Its defenders claimed it had dignity and grace. To Jane, it was just a building she visited annually to get Willard his dog tags. The ground floor was a warren of little closet-sized offices for the mayor and the public works people. The basement housed the traffic court, which was, tonight, doing double duty as a classroom. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily made their way down the rather steep steps with a sense of happy anticipation, which was obliterated when they entered the room.

Jane had never actually seen Mrs. General Pryce. Only heard about her distasteful exploits. But she recognized her instantly. Not so much a big woman as an impressively built one, Mrs. Pryce had a pouter pigeon figure—skinny legs, reasonable hips, but an enormous bosom. She was so thoroughly corseted that she looked as if a person could bounce a handball off her—if that person had no sense of self-preservation. Pryce had a face like a bulldog; the same prominent, determined jaw and protuberanteyes, the whole unattractive visage surrounded by an elaborate array of tight purple curls. She was, naturally enough, sitting front row center of the makeshift classroom. She must have gotten there a good quarter hour early to assure herself of this position. Poor Missy, Jane thought.

Jane's mother took a deep breath and approached the older woman. "Mrs. Pryce? I'm Cecily Grant. Mrs. Michael Grant. We met in Portugal some years ago. My daughter, Jane Jeffry, is your neighbor.”

Mrs. Pryce glanced up. "I don't remember you, young woman," she said bluntly.

Cecily didn't falter. "Possibly not, but I remember you. My husband was posted to the embassy." "There are always hangers-on around embassies." Cecily paused. "My thought exactly."

“What is that supposed to mean?"

“Merely that I agree with you," Cecily said smoothly, and took her departure before Mrs. Pryce could get in another insult. Cecily sat down by Jane and whispered, "I guess I should count myself lucky. I got called 'young woman.' "

“Why didn't you deck the old bitch?" Shelley asked as if genuinely curious.

“Sometimes age is the best revenge," Cecily replied. "She can't possibly last as long as I can." She was speaking just loud enough that Mrs. Pryce might have heard her.

Jane wasn't paying much attention, because it had just occurred to her that her fictional person could have a long-lost identical twin. Her mind was racing along with the idea. What if she met a man who'd known the twin....

A tall man came in the classroom. He started toward the front of the room, saw Mrs. Pryce, stopped, and sat at the far end of the second row of chairs. He was lean, with painfully short hair and a stiff bearing. Jane recognized him as Bob Neufield.

He was followed by two middle-aged women. They were obviously sisters, both very feminine, blue-eyed and delicate-featured. One was painfully thin and rather ill looking, and the other prettily plump and quite tan, wearing a flowered dress with far too many ruffles for a woman her age. This sister, the fit one, was Ruth Rogers, the heroine of the swimming pool incident. She nodded at Jane's group and went to speak to Bob Neufield. She exchanged a few pleasant words about some cartons Bob had offered to take someplace. Then she came over to say hello to Jane and Shelley. Her sister, a frail, tired-looking woman, had inadvisedly taken a seat in the front row next to Mrs. Pryce.

“You must come over for tea," Ruth was saying to Cecily Grant after they'd been introduced. "The garden's at its best, and I'd love to show it off. We're just on the corner of Jane's block."

“Oh, I noticed your house when I got here," Cecily said. "Those are alstroemerias around the front porch, aren't they? I've never seen them actually growing—only in florists' shops."

“How nice of you to notice. I've had a terrible time starting them. This year is my third try. They're sunk in pots, of course. They can't winter here—" She broke off, turning to see what was going on in the front row.

Mrs. Pryce was talking loudly to Ruth's sister, Naomi. "Naomi Smith? You're the one with cancer, aren't you?”

Naomi, pale as eggshells, said, "What? No—I don ' t—"

“Just the same, would you mind sitting someplace else?”

Jane heard Shelley's hiss. "That's unforgivable!" Cecily Grant exclaimed under her breath.

Ruth Rogers, ruffles quivering with outrage, had practically leaped the row of chairs to get to her sister's side. "Mrs. Pryce, my sister has a rare blood disorder. Not that it's any of your business. It isn't contagious, and you owe her—all of us—an apology.”

Naomi Smith had picked up her purse and folders and had moved away. "Ruth, please—"

“I don't apologize," Mrs. Pryce pronounced. "Ever."

“Then it's a wonder you've lived as long as you have!" Ruth said. She went to sit where her sister had taken a place. "Do you want to leave?" she asked quietly.

Naomi Smith was shaken, but smiled weakly. "No, Ruth. We can't let that kind of person drive us away from something we want to do."

“Darlings! Are we all ready to be literary?" a voice trilled from the doorway. Desiree Loftus entered with her usual flourish. She was trailing scarves and an exotic scent that Jane thought smelled like a mixture of marijuana and ylang-ylang. "Ruth and Naomi—the biblical sisters!" she said, rushing over to greet them. "No, don't tell me again. I know that Ruth and Naomi weren't sisters, but you are. I've been meaning to tell you how delightful the naked ladies looked all over your lawn last fall.”