Winter of Discontent by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page B

diary?”
    Walter looked puzzled. “Of course.”
    “Not the journal sort,” Jane explained to me. “Calendar. Engagement book.”
    Walter still didn’t understand, but I didn’t enlighten him about the differences in our common language. “Yes,” he said. “Quite a nice one, black leather, with his initials. Anyway, I don’t suppose I’ll be much use to the donors, but I thought I should be here. People like that can get awfully waxy if they feel neglected.”
    “Surely they’ll know about Bill, wouldn’t you think?”
    “Probably. But I don’t know who’s to be there, exactly. The note in the diary simply says ‘Donors.’ It might be two people, or a crowd. So I can’t phone them to make sure they know about Mr. Fanshawe, and …” He trailed off again.
    I felt sorry for him. He sounded forlorn, and very young. I tried for a moment to imagine being eighteen or so, with no better place to go than a small, not very exciting museum. “I’m sure you’ll deal with them just fine,” I said briskly, and smiled at him. “By the way, I left a lot of bags full of stuff here the other day and forgot all about them. Do you have them?”
    He produced the bags. I bundled everything together as comfortably as possible and headed for the door. “Come on, Jane. Home. You can help me when some of these threaten to fall out of my arms.”
    She followed silently, slowly, as if reluctant to leave. I could sympathize, but there was nothing more we could do there. I intended to spend the afternoon trying to catch up on Christmas, and then I was going to try to get Jane to take a sleeping pill, by bullying if nothing else worked. Maybe if I thought about something else for a while, and Jane got the first good rest she’d had in days, one of us might have a bright idea.
    “I gave him that diary,” she said as we walked home. That was all, but all her fear and worry were somehow condensed into that single sentence.
    Alan and I put up the Christmas tree that afternoon. My heart wasn’t in it. The tree was a small one, English style, that fit nicely on a table by the bay window. We’d picked it out a week ago, and I’d looked forward to decorating it. Now it was just a chore. I tried hard to get into the mood, but I kept thinking about Jane and her Bill. I’d hardly known him, but she was my best friend, and the poor woman was coming apart at the seams. She was trying to cling to the hope that he was still alive, but I could see that hope waning. As for me, I felt as useless as I ever had in my life. I was supposed to be kind of good at figuring things out, and I hadn’t come up with one single good idea.
    Every time the phone rang, I jumped, hoping it might be good news, fearing it might be bad. And every time it was no news at all, just friends or Alan’s family calling about inconsequential matters. They were kind, pleasant, and friendly. I could have screamed at every one of them.
    I wrapped some presents that evening, rather listlessly, and then went over to Jane’s with one of my magic pills.
    She was sitting in her kitchen waiting morosely for a pot of coffee to steep. Even the bulldogs were subdued, reflecting their mistress’s mood as animals so often do.
    “Late for a visit,” she growled.
    “I know. I’m sorry, but I’m worried about you. I mean really worried, Jane. You’re going to be in really bad shape if you don’t get some sleep. Have you ever taken a sleeping pill?”
    She shook her head and reached for the coffeepot. Gently, I stayed her hand.
    “Jane, listen to me. How many times, when I’ve been upset, unhappy, beside myself with worry, have you held my hand and dried my tears, figuratively, at least?”
    “Mmph. Didn’t do anything much.”
    “Yes, you did, and you know it. And not just for me, but for virtually anybody in this town who was in trouble. You’ve bullied us, cajoled us, fed us, done whatever was needed, and always for our own good. Now it’s time I did something for