A Quiche Before Dying by Jill Churchill Read Free Book Online Page B

course I don’t. I’m not company, I’m your mother,“ Cecily said firmly. “Katie and I can talk about you behind your back this way,“ she added with a smile as Shelley backed the van out.
     
    Mrs. Pryce’s home was one of the older ones in the neighborhood. It had been built when their suburb was still a distinct town, before Chicago had oozed out and encircled it. There were uninspired flower beds in front and overgrown hedges along the property lines on either side. A not very subtle marking out of her turf, Jane thought. The harsh white paint on the house looked as if it was ready to peel any second. They were met at the door by a maid in uniform. She was an old lady, vaguely Asian, probably Filipino or Thai, and surly-looking. Who wouldn’t be, Jane thought, having to work for Mrs. Pryce? “Welcome, misses,“ she said, relieving them of as many dishes as she could.
    Jane walked and was suddenly struck blind in the dark hallway. “The waste-not-want-not school of lighting,“ Shelley murmured, reaching for Jane’s arm.
    They stumbled into the living room, where there was a little more light. Shelley’s hand on Jane’s arm tightened and she gasped. The house was so crammed with artifacts that the eye could hardly figure out what to focus on. Mrs. Pryce had apparently spent the last six or seven decades traveling around the world and picking up everything she could find. Oriental brass figurines fought for shelf space with glazed South American pottery. Spanish shawls covered tables and were themselves covered by Belgian lace and mixes of fake and real Meissen ornaments. Japanese lacquer bowls jostled for space with Chinese cloisonné and cheap plastic pennants. A nest of primitive dolls was stuffed into a big, footed silver bowl that sat on a fragile inlaid wood and mother-of-pearl Burmese table.
    The air smelled like a neglected museum—warm, musty, with a faint undertone of mildew and marble polish. There was no air-conditioning, just a few feeble table fans barely turning. Jane supposed the only thing that kept them all from suffocating was the fact that the ceilings were so high in the old house.
    She stared for a moment before turning to her mother, who was grinning. “There are bazaar merchants all over the earth who rub their hands together at the thought of her,“ Cecily murmured.
    “I see you’re admiring my treasures,“ Mrs. Pryce said.
    For a moment Jane couldn’t figure out where the voice was coming from, then she sorted out the visual overload and identified Mrs. Pryce near a window that was covered with layers of curtains. She was sitting on a high-backed chair with some sort of finials at the top—slightly thronelike. Her smug expression made clear that she was genuinely proud of all the junk the rest of them considered so tacky.
    “This is all very—interesting,“ Jane said with a straight face. She heard a noise behind her that sounded like Shelley grinding her teeth.
    “Your mother could have a house like this, full of lovely memories, if only she’d planned ahead,“ Mrs. Pryce said to Jane as if Cecily weren’t present.
    “You planned this?“ Jane asked.
    Stunning thought.
    “Certainly. All the years that we were collecting, we were having things sent back to storage. Then, when my husband retired, we moved back here and started setting things out. I can’t tell you the pleasureit was to meet old memories. It’s a shame you haven’t done the same,“ she added, this time speaking directly to Cecily.
    “How do you know I haven’t?“ Cecily asked.
    “You’re not the type. You girls with the handsome diplomat husbands never appreciate your opportunities. Here! Don’t touch that!“
    “I wasn’t touching anything,“ Ruth Rogers snapped back.
    Jane hadn’t even noticed she was there. Ruth and her sister, Naomi Smith, both in patterned dresses, had blended in. They were looking at a crèche made entirely of varnished nuts. As Jane looked around, she discovered