Invisible Prey by John Sandford Page B

sandwiches on sourdough bread, then headed for St. Paul.
    They were driving east on I-494 in Jane’s Audi A4, which she now referred to as “that piece of junk,” when another unwelcome call came in. Jane fumbled her cell phone out and looked at the screen. The caller ID said Marilyn Coombs.
    “Marilyn Coombs,” she said to Leslie.
    “It’s that damned story,” Leslie said.
    Jane punched the answer button, said, “Hello?”
     
    M ARILYN C OOMBS WAS an old lady, who, in Jane’s opinion, should have been dead a long time ago. Her voice was weak and thready: she said, “Jane? Have you heard about Connie Bucher?”
    “Just read it in the paper this morning,” Jane said. “We were shocked.”
    “It’s the same thing that happened to Claire Donaldson,” Coombs whimpered. “Don’t you think we should call the police?”
    “Well, gosh, I’d hate to get involved with the police,” Jane said. “We’d probably have to wind up hiring lawyers, and we wouldn’t want…you know.”
    “Well, we wouldn’t say anything about that,” Coombs said. “But I got my clipping of when Claire was killed, and Jane, they’re just alike.”
    “I thought Claire was shot,” Jane said. “That’s what I heard.”
    “Well, except for that, they’re the same,” Coombs said. Jane rolled her eyes.
    “You know, I didn’t know Claire that well,” Jane said.
    “I thought you were friends…”
    “No, no, we knew who she was, through the quilt-study group, but we didn’t really know her. Anyway, I’d like to see the clipping. I could probably tell you better about the police, if I could see the clipping.”
    “I’ve got it right here,” Coombs said.
    “Well. Why don’t we stop by this evening,” Jane suggested. “It’ll probably be late, we’re out on an appointment right now. Let me take a look at it.”
    “If you think that’d be right,” Coombs said.
    “Well, we don’t want to make a mistake.”
    “Okay, then,” Coombs said. “After dinner.”
    “It’ll be later than that, I’m afraid. We’re on our way to Eau Claire. What time do you go to bed?”
    “Not until after the TV news.”
    “Okay. We’ll be back before then. Probably…about dark.”
     
    T HAT GAVE THEM something to talk about. “Is it all falling apart, Leslie? Is it all falling apart?” Jane asked. She’d been in drama club, and was a former vice president of the Edina Little Theater.
    “Of course not,” Leslie said. “We just need to do some cleanup.”
    Jane sighed. Then she said, “Do you think the Hermès is too much?” She was wearing an Hermès scarf with ducks on it, and the ducks had little red collars and were squawking at each other.
    “No, no. I think it looks quite good on you.”
    “I hope it’s not falling apart on us,” Jane said.
    “Most cops are dumber than a bowl of spaghetti,” Leslie said. “Not to worry, sweet.”
    Still, Jane, with her delicate elbow on the leather bolster below the Audi’s window, her fingers along her cheek, couldn’t help think, if it were all coming to an end, if there might not be some way she could shift all the blame to Leslie.
    Perhaps even…She glanced at him, speculatively, at his temple, and thought, No. That’s way premature.
    Then they met the cops. And talked about missing antiques, including a painting by Stanley Reckless.
     
    O N THE WAY out of Oak Walk, Jane said, “That Davenport person is not dumber than a bowl of spaghetti.”
    “No, he’s not,” Leslie said. He held the car door for her, tucked her in, leaned forward and said, “We’ve got to talk about the Reckless.”
    “We’ve got to get rid of it. Burn it,” Jane said.
    “I’m not going to give up a half-million-dollar painting,” Leslie said. “But we have to do something.”
    They talked it over on the way home. The solution, Jane argued, was to destroy it. There was no statute of limitations on murder, and, sometime, in the future, if the call of the money was too strong, they might be