A Quiche Before Dying

over to see Mom.“
    “And you—“
    “Yeah, but Mom’s the main attraction. By the way, I suggest you skip Mrs. General’s book. Mom glanced through it, and it nearly made her crazy.”
     
    Jim Spelling was a former army officer who’d been friends of the Grants since before Jane was born. Retired from the service now, he’d joined the Chicago police department as a detective. An honorary “uncle“ to Jane, he’d kept in touch with her over the years and had been a regular visitor since Jane’s husband died and year and a half earlier. Uncle Jim was one of the few people outside the family who knew the truth about where Steve was going when he was killed. Everyone had been told it was a “business trip“ when, in truth, he’d left Jane for another woman that very night and was on his way to her when his car skidded on the ice and hit a guardrail. For Jane it was a double loss, but the anger had helped assuage the grief somewhat.
    Jim Spelling and Cecily Grant, as always when they got together, kept up an amusing stream of chatter about various adventures when their colorful lives had crossed.
    “Remember the time they served sheep’s eyes and you had to swallow them whole because you couldn’t stand to bite into them?“ Cecily said to Jim. “I’ll never forget the look on your face.“
    “And the time in Russia when you went out to inspect a farm in that roly-poly snowsuit and you fell down and couldn’t get up and brought three other people down who were trying to help you,“ Jim countered.
    “Mom, I hope you’re going to write all these down,“ Jane said, starting to clear the table. “Are you writing a book?“ Jim asked.
    “Jane and I are taking a short class on writing autobiographies,“ Cecily explained. She glanced at her watch. “And we better get going or we’ll be late for the first one.“
    “I’ll stick around here and wait for Katie to come home,“ Jim said. “Then maybe we can talk some more when you get back. Janie, where are those tools I gave you for Christmas?“
    “On the basement steps. Why?“
    “I saw you fighting the garage door. Thought I’d look it over while you’re gone.“
    “Uncle Jim, you’re a guest. You don’t have to fix things.“
    “But it’s not going all the way up.“
    “That’s all right,“ Jane said. “I’m thinking about teaching my station wagon to limbo.“
    “Jim, do you remember General Pryce?“ Cecily asked. She was rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher.
    “Pryce? Pryce? Oh, yes! The old bastard with the battle-ax wife.“
    “The battle-ax is in our class,“ Cecily said. “Knowing that, you’re going? You’ve got a higher capacity for self-torture than I have. I wouldn’t get within ten miles of that woman. She’s dangerous.“
    “Dangerous?“ Jane asked.
    “Yeah, that kind of wicked person drives people over the brink and makes them do things they shouldn’t. Evil is contagious, you know.”
     

4
     
    The class was to meet in the basement of the city hall, which was an overly cute Tudor-style building adjoining the mall. It had been built only three years earlier, and there had been the usual public carping about the expense and style. Its critics said it looked like a Disneyland city hall, needing only a dwarf at the entrance. Its defenders claimed it had dignity and grace. To Jane, it was just a building she visited annually to get Willard his dog tags. The ground floor was a warren of little closet-sized offices for the mayor and the public works people. The basement housed the traffic court, which was, tonight, doing double duty as a classroom. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily made their way down the rather steep steps with a sense of happy anticipation, which was obliterated when they entered the room.
    Jane had never actually seen Mrs. General Pryce. Only heard about her distasteful exploits. But she recognized her instantly. Not so much a big woman as an impressively built one, Mrs. Pryce had a pouter pigeon figure—skinny legs, reasonable hips, but an enormous bosom. She was so thoroughly corseted that she looked as if a person could bounce a handball off her—if that person had no sense of self-preservation. Pryce had a face like a bulldog; the same prominent, determined jaw and protuberant eyes, the whole unattractive visage surrounded by an elaborate array of tight purple curls. She was, naturally enough, sitting front row center of the makeshift classroom. She must have gotten there a good