Jill Churchill: A Farewell to Yarns

She was tired, almost nodding off, when her eyes suddenly focused on one of the pictures on the opposite wall. Without knowing quite why, she got up and went to look at it more closely.

Of course!

With a click she feared must be almost audible, things started falling into place. She stood back for a moment, stunned by what she was thinking. It could be. No, it had to be. Looking around to make sure she wasn't observed, Jane took the picture off the wall and stuffed it up under her sweater. Squeezing between shoppers, she went to the front closet and got out her coat and purse. Shelley was at the sales table. "Where are you going, Jane?" she asked.

“I've got to run an errand, Shelley. I'll only be a little while. It's important." Before Shelley could question her further, Jane ran out the door and headed for home. Once inside her own house, she took the picture out and studied it again. Then she dialed the phone. On the third ring, Mel VanDyne answered. "I've got it," she said. "At least, I've got half of it, and you can figure out the other half."

“Jane, what in the world—?"

“I have to meet you. How about that coffee shop in the mall? Here's what you have to do: Get hold of John Wagner, and have him meet us. Make him bring along that briefcase thing of Phyllis's with everything in it. I have to show you something in it."

“Jane, just tell me—"

“I can't. It's something you have to see, and I have to see it, too, to be sure I'm right. I'm leaving right now. See you there.”

She hung up, stuffed the picture into a shopping bag, and headed for the mall. Before going to the coffee shop, she gave a bookstore clerk a tough five minutes finding a book she needed. Then, armed with her evidence, she dashed to the coffee shop and sat down to read hurriedly through the book while she waited.

Twenty-five

Mel VanDyne and John Wagner arrived within moments of each other. Jane had taken over a corner booth which afforded relative privacy. "Please sit down," she said firmly.

The men exchanged looks that might have been surprise or amusement, but they did as she asked and sat down facing her. Jane noticed that Van Dyne saw to it that Wagner was on the inside. Was that because he thought the man might try to make a getaway?

“First, I have to clear up a couple of things," Jane said to John Wagner. "How did you have a key to the house where Phyllis was staying?"

“She gave it to me," he said. Jane glanced at Van Dyne, who stared back blankly. Apparently this was something that had already been cleared up to his satisfaction.

“Second, and I know this has nothing to do with the murders, but I want to know—have you ever met Albert Howard?"

“Yes, some time ago. I was trying to get him to contribute to building that park at the old Orville Wagner homestead."

“Orville Wagner? Any relation?"

“No.”

That put to rest the discrepancy between how callous and tacky John Wagner had seemed to Fiona and how agreeable he'd been during the course of the investigation. He hadn't been trying to name the project after himself, as Fiona thought. Relieved, Jane took the picture she'd stolen out of her shopping bag and handed it to John Wagner. "Now, this is to the point. Do you recognize this?”

It was the band picture.

“Sure," he said. "Phyllis showed it to me dozens of times."

“Yes, me, too, when we lived downtown so long ago, but I'd forgotten until today."

“I didn't know she had a framed copy," John said. "Why is this kid circled in the back row?”

“What is it?" Mel asked.

John handed him the picture. "It's a shot of the high school band. Phyllis was one of the cheerleaders in the front row. See, the second from the right. She was incredibly proud of being a cheerleader. It was one of the high points of her life."

“So?" VanDyne said impatiently.

Jane said, "John, would you open her yearbook to that page? Just to make sure. These band pictures look so much alike. When I first saw it, I had the feeling I'd seen it before, but I thought it was because they all look the same.”

John took the yearbook out of the needle-pointed case. It fell open to the page. The three of them studied it carefully. It was identical.

“So what?" Mel repeated. "She had a framed shot besides the one in the book."

“No, she didn't," Jane said. "The framed one is from the Howards' house. Look at the yearbook. What's the name of the boy in the top row who's circled on the framed one?”

Mel took the book and ran his finger along the list of names below the picture. "Richard Devane," he said.

Jane dragged out the book she'd just bought: Richie Divine: A Star Extinguished. She flipped it open to a page near the front she'd marked. She read aloud, " 'Richie Divine, born Richard Lewis Devane, was the second of two children of a middle-class Philadelphia family. He took an early interest in music. Drum and trumpet lessons from a neighbor paid off first when he got a position in his high school marching band.' "

“So you're saying this kid became Richie Divine, and Phyllis had gone to school with him," John said, perplexed.

“Not only went to school," Jane said. "I think she married him.”

Mel had fumbled in his pocket for a small notebook. He flipped a few pages and looked up at her with amazement. "I had Bobby's birth certificate run down. She listed the father as Richard Louis Devane. Different spelling of the middle name, but maybe she didn't know there were two ways to spell it. Did she tell you she was married to him?"

“No. She only said they hadn't known each other all that well, and after the marriage was annulled, she'd never seen him again. No—no, that's not exactly what she said—" Jane closed her eyes, remembering the conversation. Phyllis had paused for a long time and said they'd never met again. Jane had thought at the time that she'd hesitated because she'd never considered the question Jane had asked. It wasn't that. It was a woman unused to lying trying to come up with a truthful, but misleading answer. And she'd succeeded brilliantly. They hadn't met again, but she had certainly seen him. Most of the world had seen him—on television, in a movie, posters, and record jackets. "She told me they had never met again. But that was before I took her over to Fiona Howard's house."

“God! She moved herself and Bobby into a house next door to the widow of his biological father," John Wagner said.

“Are you suggesting that Mrs. Wagner was trying to get something out of Mrs. Howard because she had given birth to Richie's son?" Mel asked. "From everything I've heard about her, it seems unlikely."

“No, that wouldn't have been possible for Phyllis," Jane said. "There's something else you have to know. I feel awful telling you, and you've both got to swear on your lives that if I'm wrong, you'll never, ever breathe a word of this to anyone. Promise?”

Both men nodded. It was obvious that they were surprised by the revelations so far, but not convinced they meant anything.

Jane leaned forward and spoke so softly they could barely hear her. "Phyllis didn't move in next door to Richie Divine's widow and her second husband. She moved in next door to Richie Divine and his wife. Albert Howard is Richie Divine. He didn't die in the plane crash. He was reborn as someone else."

“That's impossible," Mel said with a laugh.

“It isn't. Stop being so patronizing. You're the one who told me there weren't identifiable bodies found. The parts of the plane were never even accounted for. Remember?" Jane said.

“You mean he wasn't on the plane?" John asked. "Why not?"

“I have no idea. Maybe he just decided at the last minute to stay back with Fiona. It was almost Christmas. The next concert wasn't scheduled for three days," Jane said, tapping the book she'd bought. "It's all in here. Maybe they decided to let everybody think he was already in San Francisco and drive down the coast in a rented car without anybody knowing who he was. It could have been something like that. Then, when the accident happened, they saw it , as an opportunity to be safe forever by keeping up the illusion that he'd been killed. There wasn't any problem with money. Royalties—or residuals, or whatever they're called—from his records would keep coming in for years, and Fiona would inherit everything he'd already accumulated—" She stopped, sensing that she'd I lost half her audience.