A Farewell to Yarns (21 page)

" W h a t d o y o u s a y t o s o m e b o d y w h o ' s stealing?"

“I just said, 'Let me take that to the front desk for you, and you can pay for it when you leave.' It worked; she hauled it out, slammed it down on the table, and stomped out as if I'd insulted her. I don't know what I'd have done if she'd denied it. What you have to look out for are the ones who come in pairs. One of them will en gage you in a deep discussion about some item and stand so that you can't see what the other one is doing. That's why you need to be on your feet most of the time. So you can dodge around and keep an eye on everybody."

“I feel like a prison guard."

“Don't worry. There aren't that many who come to lift stuff. Mostly it's fun to stand around and gab with people. I guess it's time to open up.

There was a substantial line formed when they let people in. Some of the first were the barracudas—those canny shoppers, antiq ue dealers among them, who came early and flew through fast with an eye out for an accidental bargain, something they could snatch up and resell at an inflated price. The quilt that had been marked so low would have been such an item if Shelley hadn't marked it up and purchased it herself. The early shoppers also included those women who were on their way to work and had to shop fast. The first hour, therefore, was hectic, but as the morning wore on, the pace became more leisurely, and Jane found herself enjoying the opportunity to visit with various neighbors she hadn't seen for a while.

At eleven, her replacement came, and she wandered off to the living room to see how Shelley was getting along. "My afghan's gone," Jane said, disappointed. It had looked so pretty draped over the piano, and she'd anticipated at least one last look at it.

“Yes, a woman bought it the first hour. Are you on a break? Suzie Williams was supposed to take over for me, and she actually had th e grace to send a replacement. She's putting her coat away. I'll meet you in the kitchen when she's ready to take over.”

The kitchen and family room had been set aside for the use of the workers. Signs on the doors said: STAFF ONLY. DO NOT ENTER. Jane went to the kitchen, got a cup of coffee and a croissant and joined Fiona in the family room. It was only the second time she'd seen her this morning, the first being when she let them in the house hours ago.

“It's going wonderfully well, isn't it?" Fiona said. "I was just speaking to the women at the front, and they say they've got nearly a thou sand dollars already. Well, I better get along. I've got to stand guard on the ground floor guest bedroom."

“Oh, no, Fiona. I didn't assign you to that. We don't want you to have to do any more than you already have."

“It's quite all right. Ethel Besley called and said her car wouldn't start. I'm just taking her place until she gets here.”

Jane made one more feeble protest, offering to take Ethel's duty, but was relieved when Fiona insisted on filling in. Jane desperately needed to sit do wn. She slouc hed i nto a co mfortable leather sofa and nibbled her croissant as she stared at the pictures on the opposite wall. How different this room seemed now. The first time she'd seen it, she'd been shocked at the callousness of having a room devoted to Richie Divine that poor Albert had to look at every day and be reminded of his own lack of renown. Not it seemed a cozy, friendly place, a room where Albert and Fiona could recall the past while enjoying the safe, obscure lives they'd made for themselves.

“Jesus! This kind of thing brings out the best and the worst in people," Shelley said, coming in and flinging herself into a deeply upholstered chair. "I had a woman ask me to mark
up
a price, because it was such a good cause. Then I had a ghoulish threesome who made no bones about the fact that they'd come to see what they could ferret out about the murder next door. Didn't even pretend to want to buy anything, just asked me nasty questions."

“Probably undercover agents for VanDyne," Jane said. "I wonder if he's making any progress. It's terrible to admit, but I'd almost forgotten about it in the rush to get this thing going."

“Some detective. The day before yesterday you were going on about how you had the solution on the tip of your tongue. Now you've solved another little mystery, and you've forgotten the murders altogether."

“No, not altogether. I still think there's one little something that we already know that could unravel the whole thing. I just can't quite grasp it. As for the other—" She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone else was around. " —that wasn't the solution to anything. It was just a stunning revelation of an interesting fact."

“Interesting? That's an understatement. By the way, where's Albert? I haven't seen him all day."

“Probably hiding from the ravening hordes. I can't blame him.”

The question of Albert's whereabouts was answered for them a few minutes later when he came staggering in the back door with two Kentucky Fried Chicken barrels. "I thought the workers might need lunch," he said.

T hey stuffed themselves and returned to work. Jane took a two-hour shift at the front table, a busy job but one she got to do sitting down. When she was done with that and another hour filling in for a woman whose child had been sent home from school with chicken pox, she came back for another break.

There wasn't anyone in the kitchen or family room this time, and she was glad to be spared having to make conversation. Her voice was already getting fuzzy from all the talking she'd done. Her brain was getting even fuzzier. She sank back into the sofa, gazing sightlessly at the wall of pictures.

This had been one of the most frantic weeks of her life. Except for the quiet morning with Mike yesterday, she'd been running the whole time, ever since the day Phyllis and Bobby arrived. It wasn't just physical, it was mental exhaustion as well. Images of the past week were getting jumbled in her mind. Phyllis's body being taken away, setting up the bazaar, John and Chet Wagner yelling at Bobby, Mike's band concert, the church choir concert, the fight between Bobby and Mr. Finch, the funeral with Mel VanDyne rushing her past the news cam eras. And someplace in all that mental rubble, there was something important they'd all overlooked. Something so small and ordinary that no one had noticed it in the pressure of the week's extraordinary events.

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 shop pers, 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 thi s wa s so met hi ng tha t had alread y bee n 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 year book 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 kno w. I fee l a wful te lli ng yo u, 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 de cided 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