Jill Churchill - A Farewell to Yarns

“Jane, this is Fiona. I'm sorry to call so early, and I hope I'm not alarming you unduly, but there's something going on next door. The house your friend moved into last night—"

“What kind of something?"

“Well, there's a police car over there, and an ambulance just drove up. I heard some teenage voices late last night. You don't suppose something's happened to her son, do you?"

“Oh, my God! I'll run right over. Thanks, Fiona.”

Jane ran into the little bathroom off the kitchen, grabbed a big towel, and threw it at the milk on the floor. It had formed a lake, and Willard and both cats were standing at the shore, lapping.

“What's wrong, Mom?" Todd asked between slurps of cereal.

“I don't know. I think my friend who came to visit yesterday is sick. I've got to run over there. If your ride isn't here by the time I'm dressed, I'll wait with you."

“Oh, Mom. You don't have to. I'm not a baby!"

“No, but you're my baby, kiddo," she said, ruffling his hair as she ran by.

Upstairs, she kicked off her slippers and slithered out of her robe and T-shirt style nightgown and flung herself into underwear, jeans, and a red, hooded sweatshirt. A glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed her fear that adequate cosmetic help would take too long—possibly days. She looked like she'd been left out in bad weather overnight. She made do with a quick smear of lipstick and a swipe at her hair with a hairbrush. She heard a faint, "Bye, Mom," and the slamming of the kitchen door as she was putting on her boots.

She ran down the steps, grabbed her mystery-fur jacket from the front hall closet, and started looking for her purse. Where would Katie have left it? Ah, next to the refrigerator. She was hampered by the fact that Willard and the cats were pacing around the kitchen in the happy anticipation of being fed now that the kids were gone. "You've got to wait, guys," she told them as she flew out the door.

By the time she got to Phyllis's new home, there were three police cars, plus the ambulance, and a familiar red MG. Damn! That was Mel VanDyne's car, and she looked like the dog's dinner. Someone had strung a thin yellow plastic banner across the front yard that said, "Police Line—Do Not Cross.”

Jane got out of the car and paused to get her breath. It wasn't easy. Her heart was racing, and she was feeling sick. Police line—Detective VanDyne—ambulance. Something terrible must have happened to that horrid Bobby Bryant. Had he invited some of his former friends from the city to his mom's new house and got‑ . ten beaten up? Or had he already had a run-in with Mr. Finch next door? Poor Phyllis. As much as Jane disliked Bobby, she hated for Phyllis to be unhappy, and Phyllis would be miserable if something had happened to her darling.

Stepping over the yellow strip, she went to the house, aware of the multitude of other neighbors peering from front windows up and down the street. An officer was just coming out of the front door as she approached. "Lady, do you live here?"

“No, but a friend of mine does.”

He leaned back inside the door. "Hey, Mel, there's somebody here who knows these people.”

Mel VanDyne came to the door, took one look at Jane, and said, "Oh, no.”

Not precisely the reaction she would have liked from a man she was planning to invite to Christmas dinner. She had met the handsome (and somewhat younger) detective a few months earlier when he was investigating a murder. Jane herself had been instrumental in catching the murderer.

VanDyne had called her assistance "damned dangerous meddling.”

Jane had called it "solving the case.”

But along the way, Jane had decided that when she was ready to throw herself back into the word of dating, she'd throw herself in Mel VanDyne's direction first. As yet, she hadn't gotten the nerve or the opportunity. Now here she was, frayed and bedraggled, and he was greeting her with "Oh, no."

“Mrs. Jeffry, do you really know these people?”

Jane bristled. "I wouldn't be butting in otherwise. It's my friend Phyllis Wagner and her son, Bobby Bryant."

“Come in, then. But don't touch anything. Just sit down for a few minutes, would you?”

The living room was bare of furniture as yet, but there was a lovely table and six matching chairs in the dining room next to it. A police officer had some forms spread out on the table and was having a cryptic conversation with a walkie-talkie. Jane sat down obediently and waited for Mel, who had gone up the stairs. She ought to go straight to Phyllis to help comfort her, but she knew if she started wandering around the house, Mel would have her head.

As she waited, a medical attendant called down the stairs to his co-worker, "Bring me that extra blood pressure cuff, would you? This one's sprung a leak.”

At least Bobby wasn't dead, if they were taking his blood pressure. Probably not even hurt too badly, judging from the man's tone. Of course, those guys weren't supposed to act hysterical, but he'd sounded downright casual. The other attendant went back to the ambulance and then upstairs. A moment later, both of them came down carrying a stretcher.

The body on it was completely covered.

Jane looked away quickly. Poor, poor Phyllis! To have found her long lost son, only to lose him. What in the world had happened to him?

Mel came back down the stairs carrying a little book of some sort. He pulled up another chair and said, "Could you look through this address book and tell me who ought to be notified of the death?"

“It was an accident, wasn't it?" Jane asked.

Mel cocked an eyebrow. "I don't normally get sent out when people slip in the bathtub or fall off ladders. No, it was no accident. It was murder. I'm sorry, Mrs. Jeffry. Are these people goods friends of yours?"

“Not really. I'd never heard of Bobby until yesterday, and I hadn't seen Phyllis for fifteen or sixteen years. Poor Phyllis. How's she doing?"

“I beg your pardon?"

“How's she taking it?”

Mel paused a moment, then to Jane's astonishment, he took her hand. "I guess you'd say she's taking it badly. She was murdered.”

Eleven

"Phyllis—murdered!" Jane gasped.

• "I'm afraid so," Mel VanDyne said, withdrawing his hand, which she'd clutched so hard his fingers hurt. "Why did you assume otherwise?"

“I don't know. But—but—how? Why? Who?"

“That's what I hope you might help me find out. That is," he put up his hand in a "stop" gesture, "help me just a little.”

Jane was still too stunned to understand the implication. "Where's Bobby, then?"

“Upstairs. Recovering. He's about half drunk and half hung over and he's been violent. Fell over trying to attack one of my men, and hit his head on the door frame. He'll be okay. Why did you think he was the one who'd died?"

“Just because he's so horrible, I guess. Do you have a cigarette?" He handed her one and lit it for her. "I'm trying to quit," she said, exhaling. "Fiona Howard called me. She seemed to think it was Bobby. Who in the world would want to kill Phyllis? She never hurt anybody in her life. This is awful."

“We'll find out. Don't worry. Now, you can help by telling me about her. What was she doing here? The local police have this house listed as vacant. They've been keeping an eye on it periodically to prevent a break-in."

“It was vacant, until last night." She drew a deep breath, trying to compress an explanation of who Phyllis was into as few words as possible. Among Mel VanDyne's traits was a certain tendency to regard Jane's explanations as wordy and full of trivialities. "Phyllis and I knew each other seventeen years ago—"

“Seventeen years—?" he said brokenly, as if expecting a day by day accounting of the entire duration.