Jill Churchill: Grime and Punishment

She was passing a grocery story she'd never been in and decided it couldn't hurt to try. If she didn't find the tangerine juice there, she’d have to give up and use orange juice and just face Shelley's wrath. She turned back at the next corner, parked, and went in. With a panicked glance at her watch, she headed straight for the office booth next to the check-out stands. After waiting impatiently for a moment, she asked the young woman operating an adding machine if they carried tangerine juice.

Without looking up, she replied, "We're out, ma'am, but we have an order coming in Monday."

“I beg your pardon? You mean you actually carry it?"

“Oh, sure. There might be a can that got mixed up with something else, if you want to look. Frozen concentrates.”

Fortunately, this guess turned out to be right. Clutching the frigid can as if it were solid gold, Jane paid and hurried out to the car. Time was running short if she was going to have the salad waiting at Shelley's when she got home from lunching with her mother at the airport. It was 2:15 when she got home, and 2:45 by the time she'd finished the business of slicing the onions paper-thin as ordered while fending off several annoying phone calls from people who wanted to sell her roofing and siding and thermal windows.

Finally, triumphantly bearing the bowl of carrot salad, she hurried across the two driveways and into Shelley's kitchen. She was home free; if Shelley came in now, she'd claim the salad had been there for hours and she'd just come in to check that the rest of the dishes had arrived. For the sake of backing up this story, if necessary, Jane looked around. The refrigerator's middle shelf contained three other bowls of salad, and the platter of sliced brisket she'd seen Joyce bring. Apparently nothing had interfered with Robbie Jones's driving schedule, because there was also a bowl of vegetable dip and a Tupperware container on the counter full of the butter-soaked, baked wheat-bread fingers that she always brought to this sort of thing. Next to this was the sheet cake.

Jane was tempted to just nibble one of the wheat-bread goodies, but was afraid either Shelley or the cleaning lady would catch her at it. Besides, Robbie probably knew exactly how many she'd brought and would take roll call of them later. Jane went home instead, and cleaned up the mess she'd made fixing the carrot salad. A few minutes later she heard Shelley's minivan, and five minutes after that the phone rang again.

“Jane—?"

“Shelley? Is that you?"

“Jane, come over!"

“In a few minutes, Shelley. I just dropped a peanut butter jar and there's glass all over—"

“Jane, shut up! Come over. The cleaning lady's dead. Do you hear me, Jane? She's dead! In my guest bedroom!”

Four

In all the years they'd been friends, Jane had never known Shelley to lose her cool. But on the phone she'd been shrill, nearly hysterical. As Jane raced across the driveways and into the Nowacks' kitchen door, Shelley met her, wringing her hands and looking like death. Her face could have been painted white.

“I can't have heard you right," Jane panted. "She's dead, Jane. It's horrible."

“Did you call the police and an ambulance?"

“Not yet. An ambulance won't help her."

“You don't know that, Shelley. It might be a heart attack or something. Maybe she just looks dead."

“Jane, believe me—" Shelley turned away and put her hand over her mouth, retching.

Jane ran up the stairs, skidding to a halt just inside the door to the guest room. She suddenly realized what Shelley meant. The cleaning lady was lying sprawled beside the bed, just inside the doorway. Feet toward the door, face down, her head was turned sideways, and what Jane could see was sickening. The woman's skin was a mottled purple, her eyes bulged, and some‑ thing fat and purplish and repulsive was sticking out of her mouth. It took Jane a few seconds to realize it was the woman's tongue.

The vacuum cleaner cord was twisted savagely around her bruised throat.

Jane's stomach heaved and she dashed for the bathroom. She clung to the sink, steeling herself. Then she rinsed her mouth, slapped some cold water on her face, and — carefully not looking toward the guest room — started downstairs. She had to lean on the banister for support. Her knees were shaking so badly she nearly tumbled forward twice.

Shelley was at the bottom of the stairs, and they fell into each other's arms. "Oh, my God, Shelley—" Jane whimpered. Shelley was crying. "We have to call the police. They'll take care of — of everything." She knew she was babbling, but she needed to say something.

“Oh, Jane…" Shelley moaned. "Take care of it? This is too awful. How could something so terrible happen?"

“That's for the police to figure out," Jane said. Since the normally bossy Shelley was on the verge of going to pieces, Jane felt the need to be confident. But her voice came out in a croaking manner that didn't sound like herself.

“Yes. Yes, you're right. I'll call," Shelley said, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her elegant maroon suit. In other circumstances, Jane would have fainted from astonishment at seeing such a thing. Of course, in other circumstances, Shelley would never have done that.

“What shall I say?"

“I don't know," Jane said, following her backto the kitchen. They were moving along like children, clinging to each other as if afraid to let go.

Shelley picked up the phone, then put it back down. "I can't hear with that dishwasher going," she said. She looked down at the little light indicating the cycle. She went even whiter than before. "It's just on prewash. ." she said tonelessly.

“So what? Just cancel the cycle— My God, Shelley!" Jane said, suddenly realizing the implications of this. "Did you start it before you found her?"

“No, she" — she gestured helplessly toward the stairs—"must have."

“Then that means she's only been dead a few minutes. Whoever did it might still be here.”

They looked toward the family room, and suddenly the chairs and sofas became menacing — hiding places where murderers might be lurking. Jane grabbed Shelley's arm. "We'll call from my house."

“We shouldn't leave her. It doesn't seem decent."

“Decent! Nothing about this is decent, Shelley Anyway, we can't do her any good now.”

Holding hands like terrified schoolgirls, they ran across the adjoining drives and into Jane's kitchen. Willard greeted them, then ran for cover, sensing that something was very wrong. After misdialing twice, Shelley finally managed to convey to the police that someone had been murdered in her house and that she was safely waiting at her neighbor's house. She gave her address and Jane's, and was barely through talk‑ ing when the faint wail of a siren sounded on the main thoroughfare a few blocks over.

They stood looking at each other. "What do I do now?" Shelley asked.

“Nothing. Just wait. Want a cigarette?”

Shelley had quit nearly a year before, but accepted the offer with gratitude. "You'll stay with me, won't you?" she said, coughing a little as she took the first drag.

“Yes, of course. I've got to take care of car pools." In spite of the situation, the mother part of Jane was still working, consulting a mental file cabinet of everyday responsibilities. "Mike will get himself home, and Katie is supposed to be staying for a pep rally and coming home with a friend. But Todd—”

Keeping an eye on Shelley, who looked shaky, she picked up the phone, thought for a minute, then dialed Dorothy Wallenberg's number.

“Dorothy! Thank goodness you're home. I need a couple favors. Something awful has happened. Shelley's cleaning lady has — has died. Yes, it's terrible. Yes, just now. I'll tell her you said that. Just at the moment, I'm the one who needs some help. Please, would you pick up Todd for me and take him home with you? And call everybody who's supposed to be coming tonight to the meeting at Shelley's house and tell them it's been canceled. No, I'm not sure—”