“Keep them, Jane," Chet said.
“Oh, no. I couldn't do that."
“It's what she'd want. It's what I want.”
Jane caught a glimpse of John Wagner's surprised expression. Surprised and not at all pleased. "That's very nice of you, Chet, but we can talk about it later. I think in the meantime John ought to take the suitcases to his house. Just until things are settled.”
They were all still standing around in front of the door. Nobody knew quite what to do next. This was probably Chet's house, legally, but he'd never been in it before. Shelley took things in hand. "I don't know where Bobby's gotten to. He was here when we came in. Why don't we all sit down?" Assuming the hostess role with a heavy-handed firmness, she shepherded everyone into the dining room, there still being no living room furniture. She and Jane hastily cleared away the rubble on the big table.
They were barely seated when there was the sound of a door opening somewhere else in the house and a toilet flushing. The nasty jerk, Jane thought. He probably hadn't even used the toilet, just flushed it to make a rude noise. A moment later, Bobby ambled into the room and stood leaning negligently against the dining room door frame. "Company's come, huh? Hi, John. Hi, Chet.”
There was a stunned silence for a minute, then Chet stood up. Color had come to his face, and he suddenly seemed the "leader of industry" the press called him. Jane was astonished at the degree and suddenness of the change. "Don't you 'Chet' me, boy," he said in a ringing tone that all but knocked Jane back in her chair. "I'm certainly not your friend, and you can no longer claim the most tenuous relationship with me or my family. I'm Mr. Wagner to you, you punk.”
For once, Bobby seemed shaken out of his in-control, arrogant pose. "But Phyllis was my mother, Chet."
“A biological accident. Nothing more. You had no claim on her, and you most assuredly have none on me. The only time I ever want to hear about you again is when I read in the newspaper that you've been duly convicted of her murder."
“Me? Get off it, Chet. I seen the news tonight. You're the one gonna fry for that.”
John Wagner, silent until now, suddenly rose and, muttering incoherently, lunged at Bobby. But Chet was faster. He grabbed his son's arm."Don't touch the slimy little bastard. We'll just let the lawyers fuck him over. That's what they're paid for. Excuse me, ladies....”
Jane had an hysterical urge to giggle at the absurd incongruity of his apologizing for his language under the circumstances. She was surprised that he even remembered she and Shelley were present. She was also quite appalled that they were present. Intellectual snooping was one thing, but they had no business in the middle of a private emotional crisis like this. Coming to this house had been one of her bigger mistakes. These men were on the brink of violence, and Jane was terrified of what might happen. For the first time, it really came home to her that it was very likely one of these men was a murderer. And she and Shelley were witnessing something they shouldn't. But she was like an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car—horrified but unable to move.
Bobby seemed to feel he'd gained the upper hand again. "We'll see who's fucked over when Phyl's will turns up."
“Will? My wife's will is in the safe deposit box with mine, and I can assure you it's none of your concern," Chet said.
“I don't mean the old one. I mean the one she had made when we stopped off in New York the other day."
“You're lying!" John Wagner exclaimed.
“We'll see, won't we? She hauled me along to meet some old lawyer, then she went into his office and came out puttin' this blue folder thing in her purse."
“And where is this 'blue folder thing'?" Chet asked. His voice was so cold and malevolent that Jane involuntarily shivered. Didn't the stupid boy know when he was up against a formidable enemy? She'd run for the nearest bomb shelter if Chet Wagner ever spoke to her like that.
Apparently it didn't faze Bobby. He shrugged elaborately. "I got no idea. It's not here. She provably put it in the mail or something. It'll turn up, and believe me, you'll be eating your own shit when it does."
“Just what's that supposed to mean?" John asked. His face was flushed and blotched with fury. Jane was half afraid he was about to have a stroke.
“Figure it out yourself," Bobby said. Was it a bluff, or did he know what the will contained? Jane wondered. For that matter, was the whole story a bluff? She suspected it was. Phyllis wasn't the sort to even think about things like wills—unless, of course, a greedy son reminded her.
“Oh, I'll figure it out," Chet was saying. "And first thing in the morning, I'll also figure out about this house. You better start your packing, boy, because you're going to be out of it. I curse the day I ever went looking for you. Phyllis would be alive today if I hadn't. I can never absolve myself of that.”
The gentle emotions in his last words broke the spell Jane had been under. Barely able to get her breath, she rose quickly. "I have to go home. Shelley, help me finish the packing, will you?”
The two of them fled up the stairs. Raised voices followed them. Jane was cursing herself.
They should have gotten out of the house. What misguided, ingrained sense of courtesy and obligation had made them rush to finish this appalling job? As they flung the last of Phyllis's belongings into the suitcases with little care, Shelley said in a trembling voice, "Dear God, if they're going to kill each other, let us get out of here first.”
As she spoke, there was the sound of the front door slamming. For a moment Jane thought it was a gunshot, and she clung to Shelley's arm But seconds later there was the sound of the Jaguar starting up. "They must have run him out for the time being. Shelley, I'm so sorry I got us into the middle of this."
“Don't you be sorry. It was my fault for asking you to do this," John Wagner said from the doorway. ‑
“I was glad to do what little I could," Jane said, snapping shut the latch on the suitcase. John picked it and the other largest one up. Jane took the smaller ones, and Shelley went to the closet and took out Phyllis's mink jacket and purse.
John looked at the small, flat purse for a second, then set the cases down and took it from Shelley. He opened it and peered in. Jane was quite close and could see as well as he that there was no "blue folder thing" in it.
Still shaky and frantic to get away, they hauled everything downstairs and left it by the front door where John Wagner could easily take it to his car later. Chet, deflated, was still sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands. He pulled himself together with a visible effort and insisted once again that Jane take Phyllis's things. And again, she demurred. "You'll let me know about the funeral, won't you?" she asked him as she edged toward the doorway.
“We'll be making the arrangements in the morning. Give me your address, and I'll come
“I won't be home most of tomorrow. I'll be at the house next door to here—" She gestured toward the Howards' house. "There's a church bazaar I'm helping set up.”
After a few more awkward parting remarks, Jane and Shelley made their escape. They practically ran to the car and didn't even talk on the way home. There was too much to say but no way to say it.
Though the evening had seemed to last forever, it was only eight when Jane got home. She called Uncle Jim back.
“I didn't find out much, but Janey, if you're this Chet's friend, you're not gonna like this. Just a minute—" She could hear him rattling papers and could picture him fitting his bifocals on the end of his nose.