Mulch Ado About Nothing (9 page)

“Wishful thinking, perhaps," Miss Winstead said.

“You sound a bit like you're damning with faint praise," Shelley said.

“I must be more transparent than I thought," Miss Winstead said with a chagrined smile. "Ste-fan's charming, but can be a bit aggressive about soliciting funds and grants. But he gets speakers for next to nothing that other, richer schools can't get to speak. I shouldn't say this, but I don't think Stefan is above a couple little white lies if it suits his aim. Ms. Jackson was one of the speakers he got, and I've tried to get her to speak at the library many times and she always said she didn't feel comfortable giving talks. But he got around her somehow. It's a pity she was injured. I was looking forward to hearing about her job."

“Do you know anything about Julie Jackson's life?" Jane asked.

“I see notices in the paper about high-society fund-raising parties, and she is always there on the arm of some rich, eligible man. Always a different one. I suppose it's because it's the 'done thing' in those circles to have an escort."

“Do you know anything about the investigation of the attack on her?" Shelley asked.

“Not a thing. It seems to me an example of a random act of violence.”

Jane and Shelley exchanged looks. When Jane nodded, Shelley said, "I'm not sure how much you know about the attack. There are aspects of it that weren't in the papers. The person who attacked her came through the house, where there were plenty of things to steal, but took nothing, and went straight to the basement she had set up as an office.”

Miss Winstead thought this over and said, "That's very peculiar, isn't it? If it was a robbery, why go straight to the basement? Did she have a safe or something down there that a repair person might know about?"

“We don't know," Jane said. "But the man I date is the investigating officer and he didn't mention a safe. I would think if there was one, he would probably have mentioned it.”

Miss Winstead frowned for a long moment, then said, "You don't think… No, of course not…"

“What?" Jane and Shelley said in unison.

“No, it's absurd. But I just wondered if it might have anything to do with her being scheduled to teach this class."

“How could it?" Shelley asked.

Miss Winstead shrugged elegantly. "I don't know. It just popped into my mind because you were asking me about the people in the class.”

Jane and Shelley both looked stunned. "I suppose in the back of my mind, I
was
thinking that," Jane admitted. "For no good reason except it happened so close to her giving a talk to this group."

“You think she might be in a position to reveal something about one of them?" Shelley asked.

Jane said, "Maybe. But what could that be? And why wouldn't she sort it out with the person in private instead of in front of witnesses? No, I don't think that would fly."

“But none of us know her personally," Miss Winstead said primly. "I think it's rash to make assumptions. It just as well could be that one of the escorts took himself too seriously, and she rejected him. A crime of passion that has nothing to do with her job.”

The younger women felt like they'd been put in their place, and Jane reverted to what little she knew of the investigation. "Mel, that's the man I know who's the investigating detective, says it was a violent attack, and appeared that the attacker might not have expected her to be there."

“How on earth did he come to that conclusion?" Miss Winstead said with an air of criticism.

“Only because Geneva Jackson left the house with her husband earlier. The sisters look so much alike that the attacker, if he was watching the house, could have mistaken Geneva for Julie. It's only one theory," Jane said, feeling she had to defend Mel's thinking now that she had stupidly given away something she shouldn't have.

Miss Winstead nodded. "I suppose that does make sense. Who reported the attack?"

“I assume Geneva or her husband," Jane said. "They came home and found her injured, I suppose. They were at the house, anyway, when we got there with the misdirected flower arrangement."

“Jane, would you let me know what you learn of the investigation?" Miss Winstead asked.

That put Jane on the spot. She was already feeling like she'd dishonored Mel's confidences and shouldn't say any more.

“I doubt I'll be told any more about the investigation," she fudged. "Mel only mentioned the one idea because he was visiting me a couple hours later to see how badly I'd hurt my foot. Sort of thinking out loud, you know."

“I understand," Miss Winstead said rather formally. Jane was afraid the older woman understood all too well and was insulted.

The moment passed quickly, however, as there was a sudden bolt of lightning and the sound of a hard rain coming down on the roof of the restaurant.

“Nobody predicted this," Shelley said as she pulled aside the little curtain in the booth. "Wow, a real gully washer. I guess we're stuck here for a bit. Does it seem to you that the more technology the weather forecasters get, the more inaccurate they are? It used to be that the weather guy would go out on the roof of the studio and look at the sky and take a guess, and was right half of the time. Now they're wrong most of the time.”

They spent the rest of the brief storm happily deriding local newscasters who had no training in speaking good English. A subject dear to Miss Winstead's heart. "They think notoriety and famemean the same thing. I've heard so many grammatical errors that make me cringe."

“The other day, in the chat segment, one of them said, 'Me and my wife are going on vacation next week,' " Jane put in.

Miss Winstead shook her head sadly. "How utterly ignorant!

Jane was glad the subject of Dr. Julie Jackson and the attack on her had been thoroughly squashed and forgotten.

But she couldn't stop herself from wondering why Miss Winstead had been eager enough to know about the investigation to ask Jane to share Mel's progress. Jane watched as the rain diminished and chided herself for being so suspicious.

Jane
was worn out from the morning and half the afternoon of traipsing around. She let herself down on the sofa and gently toppled sideways.

“Anything you need?" Shelley asked. "Something really boring to read, so it puts me out.”

Shelley went to the bookshelves and got down a gigantic paperback. "How about
The Arms of Krupp?"

“
I hate to admit I liked it," Jane said. "I read it the year Todd went to kindergarten and I finally had a whole three hours a day without kids around. I'll try it again."

“I'm starting a roast for you," Shelley said. "Don't worry, I'll be quiet." She went across the driveway to her house, got the roast, and came back. Quietly removing a pan from the cabinet, a cooking bag with seasonings, and a bit of water, she got it in Jane's oven with hardly a sound.

Tiptoeing back to the living room, she saw that Jane was sound asleep with the book open on her chest. There was a sound in the kitchen and Shelley whirled and scurried to the door. Mike had already opened it and was dripping wet.

“Shhh, your mom's sleeping. What happened to you?"

“A downpour at the nursery. They sent most of the clerks home because the forecast is for more rain. I've got to get dry clothes.”

It wasn't until he moved away that Shelley realized that Kipsy had been standing behind him. "I'll bet you're Kipsy, right?" she said. "I was just starting a roast for the Jeffrys' dinner. Sit down and have a soft drink with me while Mike's upstairs. I'm Mrs. Nowack from next door."

“Hi, Mrs. Nowack. Mike's told me about you."

“All good things, I'm sure," Shelley said with a smile.

“Oh, yeah…"

“Kipsy, I've been wanting to have a little chat with you. If you don't mind."

“No, I guess not," Kipsy said, brushing some of the violently red bangs out of her face and taking a sip of the drink Shelley had poured.

“I have a question for you. You must go to a lot of trouble to look as you do. And I can't help but wonder why.”

Kipsy started to stand up in preparation for stomping out.

Shelley put a hand on her arm. "I meant no criticism at all. I'm genuinely interested. I love to know about human nature.”

Sullenly Kipsy lowered herself back onto the kitchen chair. "Yeah, me too."

“Didn't all those things you've had pierced hurt a lot?" Shelley asked.

“Not that much. They sorta numb you with a piece of ice."

“And it doesn't hurt to wear them either?"

“Uh-uh. Not often. The eyebrow ring sometimes gets stuck in my bangs, though, and it can be a bitch — I mean a pain to get it loose.”

Shelley smiled supportively. "How interesting. I wonder, are you planning any changes in your appearance?"

“I was thinking about another tattoo, but can't think where to put it."

“The holes you've punched in yourself would probably close up if you changed your jewelry style, right?"

“I guess so," she said in a surly manner. "But a tattoo is pretty much forever?"

“Why do you ask?"

“Let me ask my earlier question in another way. Are you planning to look this way when you're thirty or forty and even fifty?"

“Fifty!" Kipsy yelped. "I'll never be fifty.”

Shelley shook her head. "But you will, you know. How will you feel about the tattoos then?”

Kipsy shrugged. "They'll have some way to get rid of them by that time. Laser stuff or something."

“So you imagine you'll want to get rid of them someday?"

“I hadn't thought about it."

“Do.”

Shelley topped up Kipsy's drink. "You're probably a pretty girl. I want to understand what you mean people to think of you. Do you want to frighten them, or make them laugh, or think you're really cool and modern?"

“I don't think about that stuff. Mrs. Nowack, I can look any way I want. If my own mom doesn't care, why should you?”

Because I'm a better mother than yours,
Shelley thought.

“I guess it's just because I am a mother," Shelley said offhandedly. "My daughter's a little younger than you and, of course, won't talk about her feelings with me. I'll bet you didn't talk to your mother when you were sixteen either. So partly, I want to know what to say if she wants to get a tattoo or to pierce her nose.”

Kipsy mumbled something into her drink. Then looked defiantly at Shelley. "Tell her not to. Some of the kids laugh at me. I don't care. They're dummies. They're just scared of being themselves like I am. They're the insecure ones.”

So somebody's called you insecure,
Shelley thought. "Mike doesn't laugh at you, does he?"

“No, I guess he doesn't. He can see who I really am."

“I think I understand what you mean," Shelley said. She could hear Mike coming down the steps. "Thank you, Kipsy, for being honest with me."
And a tiny bit honest with yourself,
she added mentally.

“Are you two chewing the fat?" Mike said with a laugh. "That's something Grumps always says. Grumps is my grandpa," he explained to Kipsy. "But he's not grumpy at all. Let's go to a movie, since I have the rest of the afternoon off.”

Kipsy got up and followed him to the door, but stopped and looked back for a moment at Shelley. "Thank you, too, Mrs. Nowack," she said.

Jane clumped into the kitchen a few minutes later. "You really put that girl through the wringer."

“I didn't mean to. It just perpetually perplexes me that kids will go out of their way to look foolish or dirty or bizarre. I must have missed that stage."

“Most of us do," Jane said, sitting where Kipsy had sat.

“But isn't it human nature to want to be liked?" Jane tilted her head and considered. "Maybe not so much liked as admired, I suppose. And sometimes feared. You scare the devil out of a lot of people, and I know perfectly well you enjoy it.”

Shelley started to object, then grinned. "Only if they're jerks."

“So did you get a blinding insight from Kipsy?”

Shelley made a so-so motion with her hand. "I think no one had ever asked her why she wanted to look like a freak. I didn't say that outright—"

“I know. I was eavesdropping."

“I suspect she just needed parental guidance." "You and I both know how well
that
goes over with teenagers."

“But they need it, even though they'd never in the world admit it. Teenagers love a good fight, especially when it has to do with their taste or friends or appearance. This poor Kipsy only got slightly haughty twice. That's a very low average."

“You're a stranger to her. And you can be scary."

“Only when I'm trying," Shelley said. "But as for being a stranger, all the more reason she was entitled to be rude to me. But she wasn't. You know, I think it's possible her mother doesn't really care what she does or how she looks. So she tries a little tattoo. Mom doesn't say anything. So then she pierces her nose and Mom doesn't notice. So she dyes her hair a perfectly awful color—"

“Are you really trying to figure her out? She might have a devoted mother who cries herself to sleep for failing with this girl. The mother might have other daughters who are model kids and can't figure out where Kipsy went wrong.”

Shelley considered this. "You could be right."

“Say that again," Jane said, pretending to swoon. "I hear it so seldom. That roast is sure smelling great. Can you stay and eat it with us?"

“I wish I could. Paul's sister Constanza is coming to dinner.”

Jane made an X in the air with her fingers. "Too bad. Has she searched your house lately?"

“Not that I know of. But she's gone to some diet that involves a lot of sprouts and pasta, and the only meat she can eat is veal and chicken. Skinned and broiled without fat."