A Quiche Before Dying

Rogers asked me to drop off a sign-up sheet for some library thing.“ She handed it to him.
    He took it, glanced at the heading, and said, “Thanks.”
    There was another awkward pause. Shelley said, “If you’re not busy, I wonder if we could come in for a moment.”
    Count on Shelley, Jane thought.
    Neufield looked perplexed, but said, “Sure. Come in.”
    The living room was like the front of the house: painfully neat, but with nothing to suggest real human habitation. The walls were bare of pictures. The furniture was of nice quality, but it looked as if it were set up for a catalog photograph. Everything was shades of tasteful, boring beige. There was a bookshelf, but it contained only books. Very few pictures or ornaments or memorabilia. Only a football trophy and one intriguing picture of a beautiful young woman. “I see you’re interested in military history,“ Jane said, scanning a few of the book titles.
    “Yes, it’s been a lifelong hobby of mine. I’ve even had a few articles published in some of the history magazines,“ he said, apparently mistaking Jane’s comment for passionate interest. “I have quite a collection of artifacts, too. Would you like to see them?“
    “We’d love to,“ Jane said, looking smugly at Shelley as if to say, ‘See? I can get people to talk.’ He led them down a hallway off the living room, past a bedroom, bathroom, and into the back of the house. This had probably been two good-sized rooms originally. The dividing wall had been knocked out, making the entire width of the house into a single huge area. Unlike the rest of the house, this space was full of objects. Guns, sabers, and shields covered the walls. Glass-topped tables were full of knives. Cabinets were open to display helmets, cannonballs, field surgical kits, and bits of military harnesses. In a quick visual sweep, Jane spotted several grenades, a number of weapons that looked as if they belonged to modern terrorists, and what appeared to be a machine gun, sitting on top of a desk and pointed out the back window. Studying the window, she noticed a thin black line in the glass. An alarm system.
    She and Shelley gazed about in stupefaction before Jane managed to croak, “This is a stunning collection, Mr. Neufield.“
    “Thank you. I collect primarily World War One, but I’ve gotten interested lately in Civil War, and a number of very good pieces have come on the market with the recession.“
    “What’s this?“ Shelley asked of an object on the table next to the door.
    “A canister of mustard gas.“
    “Oh!“ she said, jerking her hand back and moving away.
    “Probably inert by now, but I’ve never wanted to find out,“ he said, with a short bark of a laugh. “You ladies are welcome to look around as much as you like, but if we’re going to stay in here, I need to keep the door closed. Humidity control, you see.“ He was looking at an elaborate set of gauges on the wall next to the door as he spoke.
    “Oh, we wouldn’t want to mess things up,“ Jane said hastily. The room and its keeper made her uneasy, and she wasn’t about to be locked up in it. Bob looked so disappointed that they stayed a little longer, trying to pretend an interest other than terror. Finally Jane guessed they’d stayed long enough to keep from hurting his feelings. “Well, this is truly a remarkable collection,“ she said, moving toward the doorway.
    They went back to the living room, and Bob Neufield said, “Would you like some coffee?“ Again, it was as if he’d been told this was part of the script of a play he didn’t quite understand.
    “We wanted to talk to you about Mrs. Pryce’s death. It was almost surely murder, you know,“ Jane said.
    Shelley shot her a surprised look, as if to say, “Where were you on the night of blah blah.”
    He nodded. “So I was led to believe. What do you want to talk about it for?“
    “To see if we can’t figure it out,“ Shelley said, casting caution entirely to the winds.
    “Why would you do that?“ he asked, genuinely puzzled.
    The two women looked at each other in confusion. “Don’t you want the killer caught, Mr. Neufield?“ Jane asked.
    “Of course I do, but it’s the job of the police to figure it out, and the courts to prosecute. I’d think either institution would regard private interference as dangerous and unnecessary. And I think they’d be right.”
    Jane thought Mel might be the author of that part of the script. “Did you tell them