The House of Seven Mabels (8 page)

"She surely knew how to play on Bitsy. I could almost sympathize with her for falling for that. But it's so inconsistent with what I believe Sandra really thinks. Isn't that exactly what the far left fringe of feminism wants to get away from? I'd guess that she's never even run a dishwasher because it's a girly thing. Not the least empowering."

Now that Shelley had outlined the gist of the conversation, she returned, as Jane had feared, to another matter. "And just where were you when I was pointing this all out to her?"

"At a patent lawyer's office with Evaline."

Shelley's jaw dropped. "What?"

"She's applying for a patent for her gunk she uses on the Sheetrock. She said she had no close

friends to go with her as a witness and since you were obviously busy, would I come along? It was really sort of touching. How could I have turned down a plea like that?"

"I'll accept this. Marginally/' Shelley said.

"And we're going to have a beer with her after work."

"What kind of bar? Not one of those peculiar ones, I hope. Bald women bikers with pierced parts?"

"No, it's that neighborhood place that serves barbecue."

They were early, and Jane mentioned that Eva-line would most likely want to thank Jane herself by buying the first round of drinks.

"We're not having beer, are we? I have to stagger home and cook dinner," Shelley said.

"I think any drink is fine," Jane said. "Since I'm doing the driving, I'll have a soft drink. It might make the ride home a little mellower."

Evaline waved at them from the door and approached. "This is on me. What do you ladies want?"

"Do they have cold bottled water here?" Shelley asked.

With a laugh, Evaline said, "I'll ask. What for you, Jane?"

Jane said, "An RC if they have it. Otherwise, whatever you think."

Evaline was back a few minutes later carrying their drinks on a tray. A can of RC Cola for Jane, a bottle of cold water for Shelley, and a root beer foaming in a frosty mug for herself.

"You're not a part-time waitress here, are you?" Shelley asked.

"No, but I've waited my share of tables."

"Jane said you're relatively new to Chicago," Shelley prodded.

"I've been here about nine months. But too busy to get to know much of anyone. I inadvertently chose an apartment where most of the others are elderly women who eye my boots, jeans, and truck with deep suspicion. Haven't had time to find a more congenial space to live."

"Where did you grow up?" Jane asked.

"All over Michigan," Evaline said. "In foster homes."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pry," Jane said.

Evaline pushed back her curly hair with an immaculately clean hand with practical short nails and said, "It's not prying. Most of it wasn't as bad as you hear. I was very lucky to spend several years with good people. The man was an English professor and the woman taught high school chemistry. They were in their forties and had no children, so they took me in. I was about eleven then. My mother had died of drink. And no one knew who my other relatives were. This couple

treated me well. I learned good English and had chemistry forced on me. Luckily, I came to find it interesting."

"Did you spend a long time with them?" Shelley asked.

"Almost three years. Then the thing they most wanted in the world finally happened. The wife got pregnant long after they'd given up on ever having children of their own. I stuck around until the baby, a cute, fat little boy, was born. But it was obvious that they'd lost all interest in me. Understandable, of course. After six months I was just an unpaid babysitter, so I was moved around to lots of other people."

"Nice people, I hope," Jane said.

Evaline shrugged. "Not many of them were. They were just in the game to make a little money, most of them. But because of the people I'd been with first, I realized I was tons smarter than most of the foster parents and the mobs of kids they kept. I was able to buffalo them. I think I downright scared some of them. When I got out of the welfare system, I decided I didn't much want to be surrounded by kids and housewives cashing in on the social services. So with the money I'd saved from waiting tables, babysitting, and doing chemistry papers for the high school kids — that was really profitable — I went to trade school to learn a craft.

"Learned all about electrical stuff first, which bored me senseless and frightened me as well,"

Evaline went on. "Then I tried carpentry, but didn't have a gift for it. And it requires an awful lot of expensive equipment, even if you do love doing it."

"How did you come to being interested in Sheetrocking?"

"Someone desperate hired me to sand. Everybody in the construction business hates that part. I figured it was well-paying work, but soon realized why it's hard to get anyone to do it. It's not the Sheetrock that's hard to put up. Just takes accurate numbers and lots of muscle. The studs are there. It's easy to measure and cut. It's all just numbers. But the sanding part is a nightmare. Plain hard work that has to be done twice. The dust gets in your eyes, nose, and hair, and it leaves a trail of white dust all over your belongings."

"I'll bet that's when you started thinking back to your chemistry," Jane said.

Evaline smiled. "Precisely. I spent all my free evenings in the library at the computer learning everything there is to learn about every kind of mortar. I'm boring you, aren't I?" she said with a laugh.

"Not at all," Jane said. "I'm fascinated by the inside dope on why people choose what they do with their lives."

Evaline grinned and went on. "To make a long story short — well, a bit shorter — I was cruising the Internet for old structures that are still stand-

ing and suddenly discovered something stunning."

"What was that?" Shelley asked.

"Unfortunately, my attorney told me never to reveal it. But I moved to Chicago, where the work paid better. Rented a heated garage and lived in it for two months, working during the day as often as I could get work. And experimenting on evenings and weekends. I finally realized I could never get away from the dust, so about six months ago I rented an apartment and just spent my free time at the garage. Meanwhile I went back to the library to study up on copyrights and trademarks and found a patent attorney. And that brings me to today. Jane was nice enough to pretend to be an old friend and witness my signature."

Evaline beamed a dazzling smile at them, raised a fist, and said, "Whoopee!"

"Nice girl, isn't she?" Jane said as they started home.

"Hmm," Shelley said. "Pleasant. Not necessarily nice. I didn't like the idea of her making money writing other students' chemistry papers."

"No, I didn't either. But, Shelley, if we'd grown up without parents, without money, and wanted to get ahead in life, we might have chosen to do something not quite right."

"I don't think we would have."

Jane let it go. She thought back to her own childhood, spent traveling around with her diplomat father and mother. She wasn't a good person to make such a judgment. She and her sister, Marty, had often been placed in boarding schools when it wasn't appropriate to take children along on her father's missions. Both of them had been rigidly trained to always be polite and gracious. It didn't stick with Marty, though, when she got to live her own life.

"Could we stop off just a moment at the project?" Shelley asked. "I forgot to measure the basement. And we haven't even seen the third floor where the gables are."

"Dormers," Jane automatically corrected her. "I guess so. I left dinner with instructions to put it all in the oven at five-thirty. And it's that time now. Won't be ready for at least half an hour."

Everyone had apparently left the job site. No trucks, no sign of lights left on, and plenty of parking space. "I brought along flashlights," Shelley said. "I have no idea if there are light fixtures down there."

The front door wasn't locked. "No wonder anyone can wander in here," Jane said. "Bitsy and Sandra should lock up everything when the workers are gone."

"That's just one of many things they aren't doing right," Shelley said, opening the basement

door and feeling for a light switch along the wall. When she found one, an old-style push-button, light flooded the stairway.

"Oh my God!" Jane exclaimed. "There's a body down there!"

Shelley
and jane called
their homes
and let
their children know they'd been delayed. "But turn the oven down to 225," Jane said to Todd.

"What's up, Mom?"

"There's been an accident at the place thaf s being renovated. I'll be home as soon as I can. I have to get off the phone now."

"Are you and Mrs. Nowack okay?"

"Perfectly okay. Don't worry," Jane said in the chirpiest voice she could manage, and it wasn't easy. Shelley had already dialed 911 from her cell phone, and they could hear sirens in the distance almost immediately.

"Shouldn't we go down there and see if we can help her?" Jane had asked.

"I don't think so," Shelley said, her voice shaking. "I'm very sure from the angle of her neck that she's dead. Let's just stay by the front door. I'm sorry I pushed that light button. I might have put a fingerprint over someone else's."

Two ambulances arrived at the same moment,

and Shelley told them where to find the basement door. Mel VanDyne arrived only a moment later. And very angry to see them.

"I just finished all my work and got this call. What the hell are you two doing here?"

"Go check out the situation and we'll explain later," Jane said, understanding his frustration. They hadn't had any time together for over a week, and were both looking forward to his getting free for a while.

Shelley asked Jane, "Didn't Mel know what we were doing?"

Jane shook her head. "He's been frantically busy for the last week. Three different cases to wrap up. Mostly all we've been doing has been playing phone tag. No wonder he's mad at us. Now he's probably going to get stuck with this, just when he was expecting a bit of peace and quiet."

"But we'll be able to give him the background material and our impressions of the people working here. Won't he be the least grateful?"

Jane just rolled her eyes in disbelief that Shelley could say something that innocent with a straight face.

Mel was back shortly, thunder in his look. "I presume you know who the victim is?"

"Sandra Anderson," Jane said. "She is — or maybe was — the contractor."

"What does that mean, 'is or was'?"

"The last time I spoke with the owner," Shelley answered, "she was getting ready to fire Sandra."

"And who's the owner of this wreck, if you don't mind telling me?" Mel asked, still deeply in sarcastic mode.

"Bitsy Burnside," Jane said, pretending she didn't realize he was making a nasty remark. "If you can wait a sec, I think I have her telephone number in my purse." She rummaged while Mel fumed and found the crumpled deposit slip she'd written it on. She handed it over and asked, "May we go home now?"

"Please do. I remember where to find you," he said with a sigh.

"If you can get away, dinner's in the oven," Jane offered.

"Do you
really
think? Never mind." He turned away and disappeared.

Jane and Shelley fled. "Do you think she just tripped and fell, maybe?" Jane asked on the way home.

"I didn't see a purse. The police must not have found one either if Mel had to ask us her name. I never saw her without one. No, I don't think she tripped all by herself. Someone pushed her."

Bitsy called Jane later in the evening. "Jane, this is so awful! I'm afraid that detective thinks I killed Sandy. He said he'd spoken to you and Shelley, and I got the impression you knew him before."

"I'm dating him," Jane admitted.

"You're kidding! No, I guess you're not. Sandy

and I did have a big blowup when I told her I'd I hired the contractor I'd originally gotten a bid

from. But I had no reason to harm her. Can't you explain that to your detective?"

"He's an intelligent man, Bitsy. This is what he successfully does for a living. He doesn't jump to conclusions. And he really wouldn't welcome my input."

There was a long silence on the line. Finally, sounding tearful, Bitsy croaked, "You don't think I could have done such a thing, do you?"

"No, of course not," Jane lied. If Bitsy had shoved Sandra down the steps, she certainly didn't want to act as if she suspected her for fear that she herself might become the next victim. "I'm just telling you he's an expert at what he does and he'll find out by himself what happened to Sandra." This wasn't precisely the truth. Jane and Shelley had contributed domestic insights to Mel on a couple of other cases. He called this dangerous snooping. They regarded it as helping.

Bitsy went on, not at all reassured, "But I left the renovation before she did. The discussion was getting needlessly ugly and I thought there was nothing else productive to say, so I left the house, meaning to come back and lock up after everyone had gone. Surely someone saw me leaving, or knew I'd gone while she was still standing in the yard yelling at me as I drove off. I'm sure everybody was gawking and eavesdropping. Some of the workers really disliked her. But I was too

upset by the confrontation to remember to go back and lock up when she was gone."

"Then everything should be okay," Jane said, "if you have witnesses."

"Half a dozen, at least. Everyone was upstairs still working and Sandy was screaming so loudly, I'm sure they heard it. Your detective did ask for everyone's names and addresses."

My detective,
Jane thought. It made him sound like her personal bodyguard.