The Merchant of Menace

it, it must be a blot on his copybook to have someone murdered practically under his nose. I’ll call and ask him this evening if Sharon told him the same thing.“
    “Wonder why he didn’t tell us?“ Shelley said as the white-jacketed server whisked away the ashtray that Jane had put only a speck of ash in and replaced it with a fresh one.
    “For one thing, he’s not really supposed to tell us anything about an investigation, although he sometimes does. For another, there really hasn’t been any chance to talk with him without Addie barging in.“
    “Say, that’s interesting,“ Shelley mused. “He does tell us some things he probably shouldn’t.
    But he doesn’t want to talk about them to Addie. Indicates a relative scale of trust, huh?”
    Jane smiled. “Maybe. Or he just knows she’s not interested. If Sharon told him what she told us, I imagine he has ways of checking the main facts—like where they went to college, when each of them moved here. Stuff like that.“
    “Jane, we didn’t order appetizers.“
    “Talk about priorities!“ Jane said with a laugh.
    Shelley had barely time to turn and look for the handsome waiter before he appeared as if by magic. He suggested an order of buttered, toasted French bread rounds with pâté, and another of broiled eggplant with a lemon and garlic sauce.
    After that, Shelley and Jane turned their attention from murder to food.
    “Why didn’t you even let me see the bill?“ Jane asked as they departed an hour later. “I would have at least done the tip.“
    “You don’t want to know what it cost. Take my word for it. But after two parties back-to-back, you deserve to be treated.”
    Knowing how very much money the Nowacks had and how stingy Shelley usually was with it, Jane accepted the fact that Shelley was right.
    Jane came in the house via the kitchen a few minutes later, put the carry-out food on the kitchen table with some paper plates left from the caroling party, and went to yell up the steps. She tripped over a pile of rubble. Boxes and pink Styrofoam peanuts were all over the hallway.
    “Hey, guys! Your food is here,“ she bellowed. “And you can have it when this mess is cleaned up.“
    “Sorry, Mom,“ Katie said, bounding down the stairs. “We forgot. Oh, and we made a mistake. We assumed all the boxes were gifts and ripped into one that’s not even meant for us. I don’t know why the mailman left it here.“
    “Where was it supposed to go?“
    “To those people next door. The Johnsons.“
    “Okay, Mike can take the box over and explain when you’ve got the rest of this tidied up “
    Jane changed into comfortable clothes, fended off a telephone call from a roofing and siding company (“You’re calling me on Saturday night?“), and went downstairs with the full intention to spend a mindless evening in front of the television, or maybe playing gin on her laptop.
    The debris in the front hall was gone. All but the gaping box of books that belonged to the Johnsons. Jane bent over to see what kind of books they were and discovered that they were all the same book. Why would the Johnsons be getting what appeared to be a couple dozen of the same title? Good Lord, did they intend to go door-to-door selling them or something?
    She picked one up, read the cover copy, flipped through a few pages, then turned it over. The couple who wrote the book were pictured on the back. She glanced at the picture and set the book back in the box. She headed for the living room, but came to a dead halt in the doorway. She returned to the box, took one of the books back out, and carried it into the kitchen where the light was better. She studied the photo on the back again.
    “Kids, I’ll be back in a minute. Just running over to the Nowacks’. Don’t anybody touch that box of books until I get home.”
    Shelley was already in her nightgown and robe. “You again?“ she said with a smile.
    “I want to show you something,“ Jane said, coming into Shelley’s disgustingly clean kitchen. She handed Shelley the book.
    “Oh, yes. I didn’t know this was out yet. I’ve seen a couple excellent reviews of it. You’ve read these people before, haven’t you?“
    “I don’t think so,“ Jane said.
    “Oh, sure you have. The authors are a couple of—what do they call themselves?—cultural psychologists, or something. They’ve done three or four really fascinating, best-selling books about different subcultures of American society. Real readable