A Farewell to Yarns

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.
    “Apparently his wife had left him and had come to Chicago to stay with a friend—you. Incidentally, that’s the only mention of you I found. VanDyne was pulling your leg about you being a suspect. The husband flew in yesterday afternoon, called his