The Class Menagerie

vibes. Especially for this group.“
    Edgar showed them around the ground floor rooms: a vast-formal dining room, a living room with game tables, sofa groupings, and a sound and video system that would have made Jane’s son Mike weep with envy. There was even a Nintendo game hooked up. “That’s for guests with children,“ Edgar explained a little too hastily.
    “I thought you didn’t take children?“ Jane said.
    “Well, no—we don’t plan to, but—7“ ..
    Jane grinned broadly. “You’re an addict. I know the signs. What’s your favorite? Mine’s Chrysalis.“
    Edgar actually blushed to the roots of his fine hair. “Actually, I like the maze kinds best. Lolo, that sort.“
    Shelley stared at the two of them, aghast. “You play those games?“
    “Someday I’ll get you hooked,“ Jane threatened. “Is this the library?“ She glanced into a darkened room next to the living room.
    Edgar went in and turned on the lights. It was the perfect library—three walls of dark oak bookshelves, a long library table with green-shaded lamps, chairs and sofas of soft, comfortable leather, and an oak library ladder that slid along one wall. There was even a fax machine and a copy machine ready, for businessmen and women who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, leave their work behind.
    Jane went to a shelf of paperbacks with matching orange spines. “P. G. Wodehouse! Are these yours? Edgar, I think I’ll adopt you instead of Gordon. ‘There is only one real cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. He called it the guillotine,’“ Jane quoted.
    “ ‘The magistrate looked like an owl with a dash of weasel blood in him,’ “ Edgar came back.
    They were laughing happily and tossing quotes back and forth when they became aware of Shelley tapping her foot and clearing her throat ominously at ‘ intervals.
    “Yes, all right,“ Jane said. “Edgar, you better tell me what to do and show me where the skivvy stuff is.“
    They toured the broom and vacuum cleaner closet and the linen closets, then Edgar said, “Now come out to the carriage house. The rags are there.“
    “A whole house, just for rags?“ Jane asked as they hurried through the drizzle across the driveway and into the carriage house through the ground floor garage doors. Hector sensibly remained behind in the warm, dry house. There was, his expression suggested, a limit to what one would do for guests.
    There was a jumbled heap of fabric in the middle of the floor. “These, ladies, were all the old rotten curtains and drapes in the house. I took out the hardware, washed them, and threw them in here to turn into rags as I need them. All the yard stuff’s here, too, and extra cleaning supplies. I got a by-the-crate bargain on bathroom cleaner and dishwasher soap and over there is a mountain of toilet paper.“ He pointed into the gloom at the back of the triple garage.
    “Is there more stuff upstairs here?“ Jane asked.
    “No, we haven’t done anything to that yet. It’s a relic of a boy’s room. Sort of poignant, really—that the people left it. Posters, football trophies, a battered desk with school homework papers still in the drawers. Sort of chokes you up to think of pitching it all.“
    “That’s Ted’s room,“ Shelley said.
    “Dead Ted?“ Jane asked.
    “Dead Ted! That sounds like a rock group,“ Edgar said, laughing uneasily.
    “Ted Francisco,“ Shelley said. “I guess I better explain to both of you—just in case anything awkward happens.“
    “Are you anticipating ‘something awkward’?“ Jane asked.
    Edgar looked distinctly unhappy at this turn in the conversation.
    Shelley didn’t answer directly. “This house belonged to Judge Francisco. He and his wife had a son Ted, who was in our class in high school. He was handsome, smart, athletic, everything. We were all madly in love with him. He had everything going for him.“ She paused for a moment before finishing. “The night of our senior prom, he committed suicide.“
    “Where?“ Edgar asked quietly.
    Shelley pointed above them. “In that room.“

    “Another cream puff?“ Edgar asked Jane solicitously. They were back in the bright, cheerful kitchen. Hector was lashing himself against Jane’s legs.
    “My thighs will have to have their own zip code if I eat another,“ Jane said. She turned to Shelley. “How did he do it? Dead Ted, I mean.“
    “Carbon monoxide. Besides the stairway upstairs, there’s a sort of hatch at the back of the garage. It