less in the long run if he let her make the inevitable break with Bobby on her own, without his interference. They’d have worked it out. I’m sure.”
VanDyne didn’t seem impressed with her reasoning. “So you knew this Chet pretty well, too?“
“No, I hardly knew him at all. I’m just guessing what an intelligent, considerate man would do in these circumstances. I do know that he was both intelligent and considerate.“ VanDyne gave her such a patronizing look that she burst out, “Look, I freely admit I know nothing of police procedure, but I know every bit as much about human nature as you do. Probably more, and I knew these people as well. You didn’t.”
VanDyne didn’t apologize, but he had the good grace to look properly chastised. “So where was her son all this time yesterday while she was moving in—or having people do it for her?”
Jane felt better for telling him off, however mildly. “Buzzing around Chicago someplace in a rented Jaguar. We got back from the airport with the two of them around noon, and he was gone half an hour later. I didn’t see him again. I imagine Phyllis got in touch with him somehow and told him where to come home. But he wasn’t here when I came over with her and her luggage around nine.“
“This man she called—who was he?”
“Hmmm, she called him George and asked for a poet—”
Mel VanDyne looked confused. “She called somewhere and asked to speak to a poet? Or she asked George to find her a poet?“
“No, it was a poet’s name. Thoreau? Eliot? Chaucer? Defoe? I’ll think of it in a minute. He wrote something about lilacs and Lincoln—Whitman, that’s what it was. George Whitman.”
VanDyne looked up at the ceiling as if despairing of ever understanding her mental processes. “If you don’t know where her husband is, I guess we better call this Whitman. Wait, you said her husband has a son or sons in Chicago? What about them?“
“Two sons. One lives in England, I think, and one of them lives around here someplace. His name is John Wagner, but I don’t know the street address. I think, on the whole, it would be better to call this Whitman person and let him tell Chet and his sons.”
The book VanDyne had brought downstairs was Phyllis’s address book. He handed it to her. She opened it and flipped to “W“ where there was not only no Whitman, no Wagner, there wasn’t anybody. Glancing through, she was saddened to see that fewer than half the letters had any listing. Poor Phyllis really had been isolated.
There were two women listed with Philadelphia addresses. Maybe a mother and sister or cousins or something. Working backward quickly, Jane found John Wagner under “F“ for “family“ and got clear to “C“ before finding Mr. Whitman. He was listed under “Chet’s office people.”
VanDyne was watching over her shoulder as she looked through the address book. If Phyllis’s method of alphabetizing didn’t convince him that the woman was out of touch, nothing Jane could tell him would.
“You’ll call, won’t you?“ she asked when she’d finally found Mr. Whitman’s number .
He looked at her with wonder. “It isn’t a matter of social niceties. It’s police procedure.“
“Yes, of course. Poor Chet.”
While he was gone, making his calls, Jane went upstairs thinking it was only decent to straighten up Phyllis’s belongings if the police were through with them. Certainly Chet would want to come get her things. At the top of the stairs, she heard voices from the bedroom at the left, so she turned into the one at the right. She had time for only two impressions before backing out. One, that it was a tiny bedroom, and two, that all that brownish red stuff all over the mattress was Phyllis’s blood. It looked like someone had dumped a gallon or so of paint on the bed.
She stood in the hall, leaning against the wall, fighting down nausea, and realizing for the first time that she hadn’t even asked how Phyllis had
VanDyne didn’t seem impressed with her reasoning. “So you knew this Chet pretty well, too?“
“No, I hardly knew him at all. I’m just guessing what an intelligent, considerate man would do in these circumstances. I do know that he was both intelligent and considerate.“ VanDyne gave her such a patronizing look that she burst out, “Look, I freely admit I know nothing of police procedure, but I know every bit as much about human nature as you do. Probably more, and I knew these people as well. You didn’t.”
VanDyne didn’t apologize, but he had the good grace to look properly chastised. “So where was her son all this time yesterday while she was moving in—or having people do it for her?”
Jane felt better for telling him off, however mildly. “Buzzing around Chicago someplace in a rented Jaguar. We got back from the airport with the two of them around noon, and he was gone half an hour later. I didn’t see him again. I imagine Phyllis got in touch with him somehow and told him where to come home. But he wasn’t here when I came over with her and her luggage around nine.“
“This man she called—who was he?”
“Hmmm, she called him George and asked for a poet—”
Mel VanDyne looked confused. “She called somewhere and asked to speak to a poet? Or she asked George to find her a poet?“
“No, it was a poet’s name. Thoreau? Eliot? Chaucer? Defoe? I’ll think of it in a minute. He wrote something about lilacs and Lincoln—Whitman, that’s what it was. George Whitman.”
VanDyne looked up at the ceiling as if despairing of ever understanding her mental processes. “If you don’t know where her husband is, I guess we better call this Whitman. Wait, you said her husband has a son or sons in Chicago? What about them?“
“Two sons. One lives in England, I think, and one of them lives around here someplace. His name is John Wagner, but I don’t know the street address. I think, on the whole, it would be better to call this Whitman person and let him tell Chet and his sons.”
The book VanDyne had brought downstairs was Phyllis’s address book. He handed it to her. She opened it and flipped to “W“ where there was not only no Whitman, no Wagner, there wasn’t anybody. Glancing through, she was saddened to see that fewer than half the letters had any listing. Poor Phyllis really had been isolated.
There were two women listed with Philadelphia addresses. Maybe a mother and sister or cousins or something. Working backward quickly, Jane found John Wagner under “F“ for “family“ and got clear to “C“ before finding Mr. Whitman. He was listed under “Chet’s office people.”
VanDyne was watching over her shoulder as she looked through the address book. If Phyllis’s method of alphabetizing didn’t convince him that the woman was out of touch, nothing Jane could tell him would.
“You’ll call, won’t you?“ she asked when she’d finally found Mr. Whitman’s number .
He looked at her with wonder. “It isn’t a matter of social niceties. It’s police procedure.“
“Yes, of course. Poor Chet.”
While he was gone, making his calls, Jane went upstairs thinking it was only decent to straighten up Phyllis’s belongings if the police were through with them. Certainly Chet would want to come get her things. At the top of the stairs, she heard voices from the bedroom at the left, so she turned into the one at the right. She had time for only two impressions before backing out. One, that it was a tiny bedroom, and two, that all that brownish red stuff all over the mattress was Phyllis’s blood. It looked like someone had dumped a gallon or so of paint on the bed.
She stood in the hall, leaning against the wall, fighting down nausea, and realizing for the first time that she hadn’t even asked how Phyllis had
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