The Merchant of Menace

all. Ginger must be right about him keeping everything on disk. There was nothing on the laptop of any use. I guess I told you that. And there wasn’t anything on his office machine except a word processing program with files identified by date, but without any content.“
    “Without content?“ Jane asked.
    “Empty as a baton twirler’s head,“ Mel said.
    “Watch it or some feminist group will come after you,“ Shelley warned him. “I’ll have you know that I, Shelley Nowack, once took baton twirling lessons. Well, one lesson.“
    “Not much good at it?“ Jane asked.
    “I gave myself a bloody nose with the knob on the end and my mother threw the baton away,“ Shelley admitted. “Seriously, Mel, aren’t you making any progress?“
    “I didn’t say that. We’re still gathering evidence, doing interviews. Time-consuming, but necessary.“
    “I don’t guess you’re going to tell us who you suspect?“ Shelley said.
    “Nope. Because I suspect everybody at the moment.“
    “Suspect everybody of what?“ Addie said from the doorway.
    “Suspect everybody of everything,“ Mel said cheerfully. “Are you ready to go? I’ll get your bag.“
    Addie had a lot of lovely things to say about Jane, her children, and her house and emphasized how extraordinarily kind it had been of Jane to take her in.
    Jane gushed about what a very welcome guest she had been and how pleasant it had been to get to know her, even though things had really been too hectic for a good heart-to-heart.
    Behind Addie and Mel, Shelley was making gagging motions.
    Addie and Jane parted with warm enthusiasm and anticipation of their next meeting which would once again be at Jane’s house for Christmas a few short days away. How time does fly. Air kisses were exchanged. Artificial laughter filled the air. Fake smiles beamed.
    As soon as Mel and his mother had backed out of the driveway, Jane shuddered elaborately and said, “I hate myself.”
    Shelley had her head down on the kitchen table, howling with laughter. “You should. That was the most disgustingly gooey scene I’ve seen since Love Story.“
    “ Don’t worry. Mel’s the only one who didn’t understand it,“ Jane said. She sat down and propped her feet on another chair. “Thank God, my entertaining is over for a few days. The Christmas Day dinner looms ominously, but I’m not thinking about it until tomorrow at the earliest.“
    “You’re not quite done. Sharon Wilhite brought her cookies on her own tray and left it behind. We need to take it back to her.“
    “And ask a few questions?“ Jane said.
    “Oh... maybe just a few.”
    Jane had never been in Sharon’s house and was surprised at how tastefully bland it was. Sharon apparently subscribed to the “Beige Is Good“ school of decorating. There were bits of color here and there. A muddy blue vase. A rug with charcoal and cream colors. An abstract painting over the sofa that had hints of apricot with the beige. It was a house that wasn’t really lived in very much. There was no clutter, no newspaper or TV Guide. In fact, no television that Jane could see.
    Though Shelley claimed they’d only stopped by to deliver Sharon’s platter (as if it took two of them to carry it), Sharon wasn’t fooled. “I guess I owe you an explanation,“ she said.
    “You don’t owe it, but I’d sure like to hear it anyway,“ Jane said.
    “Do you smoke?“ Sharon said unexpectedly. “Sometimes. As little as possible,“ Jane replied.
    “Feel free then.“
    “I didn’t bring any along. It’s okay,“ Jane said.
    “I’ll get you a cigarette. I used to smoke and keep one pack in the house just so I don’t panic.“ She opened a little drawer under the coffee table and got a pack out. She was obviously hedging, thinking what to say.
    “No thanks, I’m fine,“ Jane said, recognizing a brand that had changed its packaging a good five years earlier. She didn’t mind stale, but objected to petrified. And she wanted Sharon to get on with what she had to say.
    Jane and Shelley settled themselves on the sofa, while Sharon chose a straight-backed chair with a beige and brown seat cover. “I married Harvey—Lance, that is—in college. It was partly an escape from my parents, partly a general rebellion, partly sex. He was interesting. Most of the guys who were attracted to me were jocks. Harvey was an intellectual. Not really, but he gave that impression to a girl as foolish and lonesome as I was. It only lasted a