The House of Seven Mabels (11 page)

"Never?"

"Not unless she has a really good story. Then they wire her a couple hundred dollars and do the same for me."

Shelley reached for a second fruit-and-granola bar. "These aren't as bad as I expected. I want to

talk to you about Thomasina. But do you want to call your sister back first?"

"Neither of those options would be my first choice. I think I'd rather have a week in Bermuda. Sprawled on a beach with a good book, thinking about my sins."

"Then let's talk about Thomasina first. I know what Mel said about her, how tough and nasty she is. But he's a cop and lots of people don't like talking to cops."

"You have a point there," Jane admitted. "Especially when they fear they're being investigated as a possible suspect."

"But you and I aren't cops. We'll just chat with her about some innocuous subject such as how many electrical outlets she plans for those rooms they're working on now. Pretend we're thinking about furniture and lamp placement. And then ease with enormous sympathy into what went wrong with the wiring."

"And also pretend to understand?"

"Of course."

"Since you think this sounds sensible, I think I'll play the role of the nodding sidekick, if you don't mind. I don't even
want
to understand wiring."

"That's okay by me. Let's go over to the House of Seven Mabels and see if she's around."

Jane didn't understand why this pun tickled Shelley so much. Shelley usually didn't even understand puns.

"And that Mel isn't there," Jane said. "That's understood, isn't it?"

"Did Mel happen to mention whether the house is open to us yet when you were with him last night?"

"Are you insane?" Jane said, hoping she wasn't blushing. "We didn't talk about that at all."

"Guess we're going to have to go over there, then," Shelley said with an expression that on a less refined woman would have been called a smirk.

They took a few minutes to put on their jeans and boots so they'd fit in with the workers. Shelley was getting used to being seen in public in jeans, as long as they were freshly pressed. They were greeted at the locked front door by Bitsy, who looked as if she hadn't slept for a couple of days. "I want you two to meet Joe Budley. He's now our contractor."

She led them to the old dining room, where new, sturdy plywood was being installed by a group of men they'd never seen. Strong young men, most of whom sported goatees, which Jane thought was one of the most unattractive facial attributes a man could choose deliberately.

Bitsy introduced them to Joe Budley, who was an enormous, burly-looking man with violently red hair and matching eyebrows that nearly met in the middle of his face. He, too, wore jeans, boots, and a plaid shirt, but had on a sport coat as well that strained at the armholes and across his burly shoulders.

He shook their hands with a paralyzing grip and said, in an accent straight from Oklahoma, "Glad tuh meetcha, ladies."

"Jane and Shelley are our decorators. Or they will be when I can get around to preparing their contract for their agreement."

"Women are good at that," he said. This was apparently a dismissal of women being good at other things, or so it seemed to Jane. Then she realized, to her horror, that she was thinking like Sandra. That any man who spoke about women was automatically deriding them. Immediately upon the thought, Joe blew her theory.

"Well, you girls get along with what you were doing while Bitsy here and I talk over things."

Shelley looked around with apparent surprise. "What girls are you talking to? I don't see girls here. I didn't bring my daughter along, and neither did Mrs. Jeffry. Do you, by some freak chance, consider all the talented workers on the job to be girls?"

Joe said, "You're one of them, aren't you?"

"One of what?" Shelley asked innocently.

"One of them feminists."

"Not until today," Shelley said. "Only my own father is entitled to think of me as a girl."

"I'm right sorry to hear that," he groused, turning his back to her and engaging Bitsy in a discussion of replacement workers.

Bitsy, perhaps inspired by Shelley, maybe just coming into her own, or simply having been

driven mad by lack of rest, asked, "Why should we do that, Joey
boy?
Do you find their work unsatisfactory without even looking at it? I've hired professionals in their fields. Some of them are women. But if you don't want to be the contractor for this, so be it."

Jane and Shelley exchanged a quick glance. Bitsy was really going out on a limb. Contractors who were ready to step in at the drop of a hat weren't thick on the ground, not even in Chicago. The good ones were all busy with other jobs.

Astonishingly, Joe made an effort to apologize without actually saying the word "sorry." "Well, if you — women — feel this way, we ought to get on with looking over what you've done so far. And make up a work schedule to get it completed."

"Very well," Bitsy said glacially.

Bitsy and Joe ascended the stairs, Joe letting her go first. Whether out of courtesy or just to see her from behind no one ever knew. Shelley was still so angry she was red in the face. Jane had never seen her this way. "Calm down. He's just an old fart."

"Girls! GIRLS!" Shelley exclaimed.

"Good thing nobody has a blood pressure cuff handy to slap on you," Jane said. "Shelley, let's just walk out of here and never come back."

Shelley stomped outside ahead of Jane, but instead of going to the car, she sat down on the front steps. "If I'd lived a hundred years ago, I'd need to have a nice lie-down with a cold cloth over my eyes."

"It's not a bad idea today," Jane said, trying to urge Shelley back onto her feet.

Shelley was back to her normal coloring, and her expression turned serene. "No, we can't run away. It would look like a flounce. Exactly what the jerk expects of women. I hate to admit this, but Bitsy did a better job on him than I did."

Jane's mouth dropped open. She'd never heard Shelley admit this about anyone before.

The police still had most of the ground floor roped off but had allowed the workers to go upstairs to continue their work. Fortunately, the investigators were just tech people, packing up their gear to leave. No sign of Mel.

When Jane and Shelley got upstairs, Henrietta and Jacqueline greeted them and Evaline said in a muffled voice through her face mask, "Hi there, you two." She was busy using her sander on some of the Sheetrock joints. It had a small vacuum bag and created almost no dust, but she must have simply been in the habit of wearing the mask to sand, whether she needed it or not.

Wesley, the furnace guy, came up, welded one last piece of ductwork, and said, "As far as I'm concerned, I'm done in here. All I have to do now is turn the furnace on to make sure it's up and running again. Go ahead and Sheetrock the ceiling if Thomasina's ready."

"Not quite. Another hour for the ceiling fixtures," a voice boomed behind Jane.

Jane turned and saw a gigantic woman with big hands and big blond hair that looked as if she'd suffered a real electrical shock, though the hair was probably just overbleached and over-permed.

"You must be Thomasina," Shelley said. "Or do you prefer Tom?"

"Thomasina, if you don't mind. Nobody but that idiot contractor ever called me Tom. And you are…?"

They introduced themselves, and she enveloped both their hands in turn in her huge paw. "Welcome aboard. I saw Joe Budley on my way up. Is he Bitsy's new contractor?"

"I think so," Jane said. "Do you know him?"

"Worked for him once l?out five years ago. Not crazy about the guy, but he does move things along pretty briskly," Thomasina said. "Sometimes too briskly."

"We'll need to consult with you later, if you have a bit of free time," Shelley said.

"Why?"

"About placement of the wall sockets and ceiling lighting."

"As for the walls, I always put at least two sockets on each. Three, sometimes even four, if it's a long wall. It's overkill, but in these days of computers and all sorts of gadgets that need juice, it can't hurt to have extras. I'll have some time to jaw with you over the ceiling lighting over lunch if you want."

"That would be fine," Shelley said.

So much for Thomasina being the horror that Mel described. Though rather stunningly unattractive, she was very pleasant — so far, Jane thought. But still, she hoped they didn't have to clash over ceiling lighting. That might bring out the belligerent woman Mel knew.

Bitsy and Joe were huddled over a piece of plywood on sawhorses, looking over the plans, which were being kept from rolling up with various blocks of scrap wood and hammers. Joe kept looking around to see how far the work had progressed. If he found fault with any of it, he had the common sense to keep it to himself in front of the workers.

"Are those Sandra's plans?" Shelley asked, strolling over to look. "Bitsy and I have discussed the fact that the measurements aren't entirely correct."

Jane suddenly had an insight that had nothing to do with this job. She'd been creeping through what she hoped would turn into a historical novel for a couple of years. She realized as Shelley spoke that the spooky house where the main character lived was almost a character itself> and that one of the problems she'd always faced with the writing was that she could picture the sprawling old house sitting on a hostile crag. But she had no idea what it was like inside. Her character had looked out over the dark, cold sea from her bedroom window. That was all she knew.

Jane desperately wanted to run and get a com-

puter program that would allow her to make the house plans so that when her heroine walked from the bedroom suite to the stairs, Jane could actually picture how many steps it would take and what other doorways were in the upper hall. And she had a new computer it would work on. The plans Shelley, Joe, and Bitsy were looking at had to have been computer-generated.

Thomasina was back at work. Shelley had presented her own measurements to Joe Dudley, and Jane pulled Shelley aside and quietly said, "Do you really need me to talk to Thomasina? I have something I really want to do with my book today."

Shelley looked pleased. "I haven't heard you mention your book in forever. I'm glad to hear you're still working on it. Go ahead. I can handle this myself."

Jane rushed to her car, headed for the nearest computer center, and dashed home with the program the clerk had recommended. Not a truly professional one. Those, she learned, cost thousands of dollars and you had to take classes to learn how they worked. But lots of do-it-yourselfers used the one she had bought for a hundred dollars. She dithered a bit reading the instructions for installing the program and was astonished when she got it right on the first try.

She didn't have any car pool duty today and realized when Katie and Todd barged through the kitchen door, slamming their backpacks on the kitchen table, that what had seemed like mere

minutes had been at least five hours of concentrated creativity. It wasn't writing, of course, but she had the basics of the house in her mind, and when she finished the last details, she'd be eager to get back to work on the endless book. Maybe it wouldn't truly be endless. It was odd to feel both exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

"Kids, come look at this!" she shouted down the stairs.

Katie looked at the screen. "What's that?"

"Where Priscilla lives," Jane said.

"Who's Priscilla?" Todd asked, leaning closer.

"The woman in the book I've been working on for as long as I can remember."

"I don't see any bathrooms," Todd said.

"Oh!" Jane said, putting the palm of her hand on her forehead.

"But it's sure a cool program," Todd said, glancing through the instruction manual.

"I have you to thank," Jane said. "If I hadn't bought this computer, I wouldn't have ever been able to do this. The old one couldn't have coped with something this elaborate. Would you have a little time to help me figure out where to put the bathrooms?"

"After dinner. Sure."

"Dinner?" Jane asked as if she'd never heard the word. "What kind of carryout would you like?"

"Pizza!" both kids chorused.

"Then spring for delivery. Todd, you can help me while we wait."

When Shelley dropped in for coffee around eight o'clock, Katie said, "Mom's on the computer. You'll have to crowbar her hand off the mouse."

"What's she doing?"

"Making a house for Priscilla," Katie said with a laugh. "Go on upstairs. You'll probably have to beat her on the head to get her attention."

Katie was nearly right. Shelley had to call Jane's name three times before she noticed. "Shelley, this is so cool. Look at this."

Jane explained that when she saw Shelley, Bitsy, and Joe looking over the house plans, she'd realized they were done on a computer. She went on, showing Shelley every detail of the bleak, windswept house she was constructing.

Shelley had often nagged Jane, though gently, to finish the book and was truly delighted that this had inspired her to get back to it.

"I haven't seen you this excited about your book before. I think it's wonderful. But isn't it set in the 1800s? I think this kitchen you have on the ground floor would have been in the basement, or even a separate building if it was in the South. All the cooking was done with real wood fires and they didn't want them smoking up the whole house. That's the whole reason those domelike silver things were made to put over plates. So you carry the food quite a long way without it getting cold before it got to the dining room."

"Another head slapper," Jane said. "You're right."

"Doesn't this make you more interested in the house plans?"

Jane instantly felt a twinge of guilt. "Shelley, I'm sorry. I've been so obsessed with what I was doing that I didn't even ask how your meeting with Thomasina went."