A Farewell to Yarns

put it in a safe deposit box there or mailed it to someone.“
    “She could, but why would she?”
    There was another long silence before Jane said, “Hadn’t we better get going? Did you mean it about driving me to the funeral, or was that just a ploy to catch me off guard so I’d burst into hysterical tears and admit to killing Bobby?“
    “I’ve got better ploys than that. Yes, I meant it.”
    Jane went up and told a very sleepy Mike that she was leaving. Once in Mel’s car, she was glad—for a change—that she wasn’t tall and leggy. She’d have had her knees up around her ears if she were. “What do you know about Bobby’s death? Weapon, that sort of thing?“ she asked him when they were under way.
    “Next to nothing. He must have gotten a call or made some arrangement to meet someone there. We didn’t have the phone tapped—an oversight, damn it all. He was stabbed. The weapon removed from the scene. It probably happened between one and four in the morning.“
    “No better clues than that?“
    “Afraid not. Jane, this was too late for the morning papers, and I’m assuming nobody but the murderer knows about it yet, so I don’t want you to say anything about it at the funeral.”
    Jane felt deflated. “I get it. I’m an excuse for you to be there observing how everybody’s behaving.”
    He put his gloved hand over hers for a second. “Only partly, Jane.”
    She gazed out the window. Mother always said, “Half a loaf is better than none.“ But this was the soggy bottom half; she wanted the crusty, buttery top half.
     

Twenty
     
    If Mel VanDyne had expected emotional fire-works at the funeral, he was disappointed. The widower behaved with cool decorum. John Wagner stayed close to his father, looking vaguely belligerent but otherwise no more upset than any stepson who was only slightly fond of his late stepmother. Jane noticed both of them casting a quick eye over the assembly once or twice, but whether they were looking for Bobby or merely curious about who was in attendance, it was impossible to say. John sat next to his father, and on his other side there was a mousy woman Jane remembered from volleyball days, presumably the downtrodden Joannie. Beside her there was a lean, red-headed man in his thirties who leaned across Joannie and whispered to John a couple of times. Jane assumed that he was the brother from the London office.
    Closest to the family were a number of muscular, stern-faced young men. Jane realized that they must be bodyguards. Of course a man of Chet’s money and international standing must have them, so why did she find their presence so foreign and alarming? Other than the family and the bodyguards, the funeral was well attended by a lot of extremely well-heeled people, presumably Chet’s wealthy friends who had flocked in from whatever fashionable watering holes they normally frequented. The women’s clothes were magnificent, and the men all looked like aging movie stars. Jane tried to picture Phyllis socializing with these people and failed.
    Next in the pecking order were the small legion of people she assumed were Chet’s staff and business associates. They were identifiable by their yuppie looks and fawning demeanors.
    There wasn’t a tear in the crowd. If anyone genuinely grieved for Phyllis—besides Chet—they were keeping it well hidden. Jane sat listening to the bland service, obviously conducted for a woman none of them knew well, and tried to find a feeling of true loss somewhere in her own heart. All she found was guilt.
    The only interesting part of the ordeal, as far as Jane was concerned, was the fact that a couple of network news crews had gathered outside the church during the service. Chet, John, John’s wife, Joannie, and the red-headed Wagner son had taken places with the minister at the door of the church in a sort of reverse receiving line. Being in the back row, Jane was among the first out. As Chet opened the door for her, a cameraman leaped into action, focusing on Jane as she came down the steps clutching Mel’s arm to keep from taking a header on the icy steps.
    Accustomed to cameras, VanDyne snarled, “Buzz off, boys,“ and shoved her unceremoniously through the crowd and into the red MG.
    “Andy Warhol promised me fifteen minutesof fame,“ Jane mused as they roared off. “I wonder if it’s all going to be in five-second intervals. Did you learn anything?“
    “Not a damned thing. They didn’t even seem to notice that