The Merchant of Menace (15 page)

“What are those in English?" she asked.

“Translated loosely," he said, lowering his voice, "meat loaf and stew. But the best meat loaf or stew that you'll ever taste."

“Shelley, let's have one of each. And we could trade."

“Jane, we do not pass food back and forth here," Shelley hissed. "Your parents would have strokes if they heard you suggesting something so gauche."

“I could give you each a half order of both," the waiter suggested.

“You're a good man," Jane said. "And why don't you just give us a wine you recommend so I won't feel silly about ordering it?”

That got him to crack a smile.

When he was out of earshot, Jane leaned forward and said quietly, "These fancy plates on the table — chargers, I think they're called?”

“What about them?"

“Well, nobody ever eats on them. They take them away when they serve dinner, so do they have to be washed?”

Shelley stared at her for a long moment and said, "Have you considered psychiatric care?”

“I just wondered. They've got this nice gold rim, so they couldn't be put in a dishwasher and it seems a waste of time and effort to make people wash them by hand when nobody's ever eaten off them.”

Shelley rolled her eyes and said, "Wonder about Sharon Wilhite instead. She said she'd told the police everything she told us. I imagine that's true. She must know you're involved with Mel. He was at the party."

“Do you think she even noticed? Come to think of it, it must be a blot on his copybook to have someone murdered practically under his nose. I'll call and ask him this evening if Sharon told him the same thing."

“Wonder why he didn't tell us?" Shelley said as the white-jacketed server whisked away the ashtray that Jane had put only a speck of ash in and replaced it with a fresh one.

“For one thing, he's not really supposed to tell us anything about an investigation, although he sometimes does. For another, there really hasn't been any chance to talk with him without Addie barging in."

“Say, that's interesting," Shelley mused. "He does tell us some things he probably shouldn't.

But he doesn't want to talk about them to Addie. Indicates a relative scale of trust, huh?”

Jane smiled. "Maybe. Or he just knows she's not interested. If Sharon told him what she told us, I imagine he has ways of checking the main facts — like where they went to college, when each of them moved here. Stuff like that."

“Jane, we didn't order appetizers."

“Talk about priorities!" Jane said with a laugh.

Shelley had barely time to turn and look for the handsome waiter before he appeared as if by magic. He suggested an order of buttered, toasted French bread rounds with pâté, and another of broiled eggplant with a lemon and garlic sauce.

After that, Shelley and Jane turned their attention from murder to food.

“Why didn't you even let me see the bill?" Jane asked as they departed an hour later. "I would have at least done the tip."

“You don't want to know what it cost. Take my word for it. But after two parties back-to-back, you deserve to be treated.”

Knowing how very much money the Nowacks had and how stingy Shelley usually was with it, Jane accepted the fact that Shelley was right.

Jane came in the house via the kitchen a few minutes later, put the carry-out food on the kitchen table with some paper plates left from the caroling party, and went to yell up the steps. She tripped over a pile of rubble. Boxes andpink Styrofoam peanuts were all over the hallway.

“Hey, guys! Your food is here," she bellowed. "And you can have it when this mess is cleaned up."

“Sorry, Mom," Katie said, bounding down the stairs. "We forgot. Oh, and we made a mistake. We assumed all the boxes were gifts and ripped into one that's not even meant for us. I don't know why the mailman left it here."

“Where was it supposed to go?"

“To those people next door. The Johnsons."

“Okay, Mike can take the box over and explain when you've got the rest of this tidied up “

Jane changed into comfortable clothes, fended off a telephone call from a roofing and siding company ("You're calling me on Saturday night?"), and went downstairs with the full intention to spend a mindless evening in front of the television, or maybe playing gin on her laptop.

The debris in the front hall was gone. All but the gaping box of books that belonged to the Johnsons. Jane bent over to see what kind of books they were and discovered that they were all the same book. Why would the Johnsons be getting what appeared to be a couple dozen of the same title? Good Lord, did they intend to go door-to-door selling them or something?

She picked one up, read the cover copy, flipped through a few pages, then turned it over. The couple who wrote the book were pictured on the back. She glanced at the picture and set the book back in the box. She headed for the living room, but came to a dead halt in the doorway. She returned to the box, took one of the books back out, and carried it into the kitchen where the light was better. She studied the photo on the back again.

“Kids, I'll be back in a minute. Just running over to the Nowacks'. Don't anybody touch that box of books until I get home.”

Shelley was already in her nightgown and robe. "You again?" she said with a smile.

“I want to show you something," Jane said, coming into Shelley's disgustingly clean kitchen. She handed Shelley the book.

“Oh, yes. I didn't know this was out yet. I've seen a couple excellent reviews of it. You've read these people before, haven't you?"

“I don't think so," Jane said.

“Oh, sure you have. The authors are a couple of — what do they call themselves? — cultural psychologists, or something. They've done three or four really fascinating, best-selling books about different subcultures of American society. Real readable stuff. I think the last one was about a largely Hispanic town in Texas someplace. They don't do that usual visitingresearcher-questionnaire kind of thing. They just move in the neighborhood as ordinary people and learn about their neighbors.”

Jane nodded. "I see. It makes sense. Come sit down and study the book, Shelley."

“Why? You want me to read the whole thing right now?"

“No, I just want you to look at it thoroughly.”

“Is this some kind of game? You must be really bored.”

“Indulge me.”

Shelley sat down and read the material on the front flap, skimmed the chapter headings, read the back cover flap, then turned the book over. She set it down on the table. "Okay, so I've looked it over and I still don't get wha—”

She frowned for a moment, picked the book back up and turned it over. She studied the picture of the authors for a long moment. Then she looked up at Jane. Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened very wide. "Jane—?"

“Uh-huh?"

“This picture," Shelley said haltingly. "You'll think I'm crazy, but it looks like a glamour shot of Billy Joe and Tiffany.”

“
That's what / thought,"
Jane said.

"How'd you get this book?" Shelley asked.

“It came to our house by accident. An entire box of them. The mail carrier had a bunch of boxes from my parents and unloaded this one on us too. The kids didn't read the address label and ripped into it.”

They hunched over the book, studying the picture closely. "Their hair is different. Both of them. And they're 'dressed for success' in the picture," Jane said. "But I'm sure they're the same people. They have the same teeth as the Johnson do. I always notice teeth. It's stretching coincidence too far that they'd have exact doubles who just happened to send them a box full of books.”

Shelley sat back, scowling. "So we're their next guinea pigs, right? They're doing this hillbilly act to shock the suburbanites and madly scribble down our reactions. That pisses me off."

“It hurts my feelings," Jane admitted. "I was going out of my way to like them, be nice to them, even defend them against the Concerned Citizen junk, and all the time they're considering me a lab rat. If their other books were such bestsellers, that means they're rich, probably highly sophisticated academics who are slumming."

“Right," Shelley said. "Wait while I get dressed."

“You're getting dressed to go to bed when you're already in your nightgown?"

“No, we're going to take that box of books to the rightful recipients.”

The box was on the porch between them. Jane rang the bell and Tiffany opened the door. "Tiff, the post office accidentally gave me a package that belongs to you," Jane said. "I'm sorry to say my kids thought it was more Christmas packages from their grandparents and opened it.”

She bent down and picked up one end of the box and Shelley got the other, although it didn't require two of them to carry it. The point was to get in the house without handing the box over to Tiffany — or Dr. Lenore Johnson, to be more accurate.

Tiffany looked alarmed. "Here you go, I'll take it," she said.

“No, no, we'll put it inside," Shelley said, coming very close to physically shoving Tiffany aside.

As arranged, Jane managed to trip going in the house and dropped her end of the box, which allowed a couple books to spill out.

“Oh, dear, I'm so sorry," she said, almost bumping heads with Tiffany as they both leaned over very quickly to pick up books.

Jane grabbed one while Tiffany frantically stuffed the others back.

“Hmmm," Jane said, holding it up. "What an interesting-looking subject." She flipped it over. "And what attractive authors. Somehow I have the feeling they're familiar.”

She looked straight into Tiffany's eyes and tossed the book into the box.

Billy Joe had heard them talking and had come into the room. He was now standing behind Tiffany, who turned and looked at him panic-stricken, then back at Jane.

“You know, don't you?" she asked.

Jane nodded.

“And you're angry," Billy Joe said. It wasn't a question.

“We sure are," Shelley said.

It was amazing the way his very appearance changed when he dropped the twangy speech and good of boy grin. Even wearing overalls and a plaid shirt, he looked like a college professor now.

“I guess we should explain…" Billy Joe (Dr. William Johnson in the picture) said.

But Jane and Shelley weren't having any. "It's late. We have to go," Shelley said.

“Please—" Tiffany began.

“Nothing you can explain is going to improve our dispositions," Jane said. "I can promise you that.”

Both of the Drs. Johnson were still sputtering fitfully as Jane and Shelley left the house. "Canyou come in for a while?" Jane asked. "Or are you still planning to go to bed early?"

“I'm much too mad to sleep," Shelley said.

They tidied up the mess the kids had made with dinner, fixed themselves soft drinks, and settled in Jane's living room. Jane dredged up a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It didn't help at all.

Shelley said, "When I read those other books they wrote, I really thought they were fascinating. But the idea of you and me and our families and neighbors being put under their sociological microscope makes me furious. I know that's selfish, not caring about other people's privacy, only my own. And being made to feel bad about myself makes me even angrier."

“Do they use people's real names?" Jane asked.

Shelley shrugged. "I hope not, but I don't know. The people they write about are very vivid. They probably fictionalize a bit and have to use fake names."

“But when the book about us comes out, we'll all be recognizable to each other, won't we," Jane said. "I'm just sick about this. It's a betrayal. A huge, mean-spirited practical joke.”

Shelley nodded. "More to you than most of us, Jane. You went out of your way to be nice to them. I was only nice to them because I knew you'd take me to task if I weren't. This sure explains a lot, doesn't it?"

“What do you mean?"

“About them," Shelley said. "Why they seem too young to be retired. Why Billy Joe works at a computer and has lots of reference books. Why they appear to have plenty of money from an unknown source. Why they're renting instead of buying."

“Didn't Sharon Wilhite say she owns the house? Didn't she have to know they were fakes?"

“She probably rents it through an agency. I can't quite see her rushing home from the office to chat with potential renters. As for a signature on a contract, 'Billy Joe' really is William J. Johnson and Tiffany/Lenore probably didn't sign it.”

Katie came thumping down the stairs, into the kitchen, and called out, "Thanks, Mom. I was gonna clean it all up. Really, I was."

“It's okay," Jane said listlessly.

Katie came in and looked at her mother, then reached out and pretended to take her pulse. "Are you okay? You should be mad at us."

“I'm too busy being mad at someone else just now."

“Oh, good," Katie said. "Does that mean you wouldn't care if I had a few girls over for the night?"

“It does not."

“Too bad," Katie said cheerfully and headed back to her room.

“It's Saturday night and none of my children asked to go anywhere!" Jane said, suddenly aware of something other than the Johnsons. "What's wrong with this picture?”

But Shelley wasn't willing to wander off the path. She was annoyed and she intended to stay annoyed until she'd hashed the whole situation out. "The strange thing is, they're changing their technique.”

“What?"

“Well, I've only read two of the books. I think there are four. But in those two, the Johnsons moved into an area and tried to fit in. I remember something about learning to speak Spanish before moving into the Hispanic town and dying their hair dark so they'd fit in better. And in the one about the Pennsylvania mining community, they did a full year's research on the area, the history, the family names, mining terms, and such."