Chapter One
Jane and Shelley were on their way to pillage the grocery
store. It was the hottest, most awful July week anyone in
the suburbs of Chicago could remember. Jane, who was
driving, had a long list of things to acquire. She'd
planned out a whole week of cold salads for herself and
her kids Mike, Katie, and Todd. Hearty, interestingly
shaped pastas, lots of good veggies, hard-boiled eggs,
tuna, and chicken to pile upon huge amounts of crisp, cold
lettuce, accompanied by big pitchers of iced tea, a twelve-
pack of V8, and soft drinks. Frozen fruit desserts. Even
Popsicles.
It would only entail one miserable early morning of
boiling and sauteing and running up the air-conditioning
bill. Then she wouldn't do any real cooking at all until
there was a relatively cool day.
"What was wrong with that space right in front of the exit
door?" Shelley complained as Jane cruised the grocery
store parking lot.
"A beat-up car was next to it. That's the sort of person
you don't want to park next to. They don't care about the
condition of your car because they don't care about their
own."
"You don't intend to park way down the street, where we
have to run the carts half a mile and then bring them
back, do you?"
"Nope. See the space between the Mercedes and the Land
Rover? That's where we want to be -- next to people who
care about their automobile's well-being."
When they came out of the store, each of them had four
bags in her cart. They put them in the back of Jane's
Jeep, which she'd equipped with a clear plastic sheet to
prevent spills staining the carpet.
"Jane, you're more protective of this Jeep than you were
of your children."
"Yes," Jane admitted.
When Jane pulled into her new driveway, noting how nice it
was not to have to dodge the horrible pothole anymore,
Shelley asked, "What have you heard about your
manuscript?"
"You're not supposed to keep asking me about it. I'll tell
you later, when we've sorted out which bags belong to each
of us and put away the food."
"I haven't asked about your book for a full month. I've
kept track," Shelley said, then added, "I have something
to talk to you about, too. A new project for us to try
out."
Jane almost groaned. In a couple of years they'd be stay-
at-home mothers without children at home anymore. They had
tried out several jobs and hobbies they had thought would
be interesting and profitable. They'd taken on knitting
and gardening and took a lot of classes. They'd even
attempted to be wedding planners. None of which had
claimed their hearts. Jane half feared that if she sold
this book and continued to write mysteries, Shelley might
not have found a job she also loved.
On the other hand, she might still be able to work with
Shelley -- most writers probably managed to have a real
life and do other things, she assumed.
They managed to sort out which bags were Jane's and which
were Shelley's, and when they started taking them inside,
Shelley called across their adjoining driveways, "We'll
talk about your book and my project over a good dinner
out."
"Why would we go out to dinner when we have three tons of
food?"
"Because Paul's out of town examining the books of one of
his franchised restaurants. He thinks they're fudging the
numbers. And all our kids are going to the swimming pool
and eating there this evening. You don't want to cook for
yourself and neither do I."
"You have a good point. Chinese?"
"Okay."
While they nibbled on crab Rangoon and the best spring
rolls in their suburb, Jane told Shelley that Felicity
Roane, the nice, helpful writer whom they'd met at a
mystery convention, had read her manuscript and made a few
suggestions. "I fixed them in two days and sent the
manuscript to Melody Johnson. That was three weeks ago."
Melody Johnson was the editor whom Felicity Roane had
suggested. Jane had met Melody at the same mystery
conference and had had an interview with her about her
book. Melody had been interested and had asked Jane to
send the whole manuscript to her.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I was afraid she wouldn't like it and I'd be back at
square one."
"Have you heard back from her?"
"No, not yet. I rushed it a bit. I wanted to get it in by
the middle of July. I understand publishing pretty well
shuts down in August. Everybody goes to the Hamptons or
Maine."
"Everybody? They turn off the lights and computers and go
away?"
"Not quite. The secretaries and junior editors have to
stick around, I imagine. I wanted Melody to have the
manuscript before she disappeared on her vacation."
As their Mongolian beef arrived and the appetizer plates,
looking as if they'd been licked clean, were taken away,
Jane asked, "So what's this project you have in mind?"
"It started when Paul purchased a run-down theater,
thinking he could renovate it into a place to keep food
supplies for all his restaurants in the Chicago area."
"So?"
"He started getting bids for cleaning it up. And it
appeared to be too expensive. He's even more obsessed by
cleanliness of food storage than the government agencies
are. He'd have had to tear the building down and start
from scratch. He didn't want to make the investment in
doing that, much less waste the time it would take. So he
donated it to the community college's theater department.
It was a good tax break for him."
"It's not like Paul to buy property without thoroughly
investigating it, is it?" Jane asked.
Shelley grinned. "That wasn't the real reason he bought
it, I have to admit. But never let him know I told you
this. It used to be a movie theater and it was where he
saw the first film he ever watched. Ablack-and-white
cowboy epic. He still remembers that as one of his best
childhood experiences. The building was due to be leveled
to make a parking lot."
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