Free The Merchant of Menace by Jill Churchill Page A

any second?”
    Shelley grinned. “I guess I am. Listen, Jane, you have to think about this like I do about getting a Pap test. No matter how awful it’s going to be, in X number of hours it’s going to be over.“
    “Well, X number of hours can’t pass fast enough for me,“ Jane said grimly.
    The party got off to a rousing start, everybody being glad to get out of the cold and eat themselves silly. But when Lance King finally rejoined the group, with his cameraman, lighting people, and equipment, the crowd in Jane’s house grew significantly quieter and more subdued. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to attract his attention except a couple malcontents who fell on him with suggestions for individuals they personally wanted skewered.
    Jane lurked at the kitchen door, watching Lance move through the room like a bad smell. Nobody actually recoiled, hand over nose, but they looked away, got very interested in minute items on their plates, or struck up quietly animated conversations with each other.
    Lance didn’t seem to care. He strolled about the room as if he were a rock star and the rest were adoring fans. He carried a bag, which Jane assumed was a laptop computer, and carelessly banged it into several pieces of furniture. His Santa suit was open at the neck and he’d discarded his false beard somewhere. Probably in the middle of the dining room table where it could remain a revolting reminder of his presence, Jane thought nastily.
    “Ho! Ho! Ho!“ he suddenly bellowed. There was a soft clatter of plastic utensils as several startled party-goers lost their grips on forks and spoons. “This looks more like a wake than a holiday party. Ah, life in the suburbs. Ever exciting.”
    He gazed around for a moment, then noticed Jane at the kitchen door. He called across the room, “You must be Mrs. Jeffry. Thanks for inviting us to your happy little home.“ He flung himself into Jane’s favorite chair, the squashy, overstuffed one that was so comfortable that she considered sitting in it as going back to the womb. It was where she sat to watch television, to play with her laptop, to do double-crostics. Her chair had been violated.
    “I didn’t,“ Jane muttered.
    “What was that? Speak up, honey.”
    Jane balled her fists as she felt a flush flood her face and she turned away. She headed for the guest bathroom in the little hall leading to the garage, considering the possibility that she could just keep going. Get in the car, drive away, and come back later. Instead, she shut herself in the bathroom for a few quiet minutes of rage. But training eventually overcame emotions. Jane’s father was in the State Department and she’d grown up all over the world. And she’d been told, practically from birth, that the host or hostess must be polite to guests—no matter what. No running away or hiding in bathrooms. As a child and teenager, she’d attended various dinners her parents gave that included sheep’s eyeballs, petrified codfish, and eating on the floor of a tent with the sound of wild animals just outside. Lance King was only marginally more revolting than any of those.
    She emerged and found herself face-to-face with Mel.
    “I’ve been looking all over for you, Janey,“ he said. “What’s wrong? You look upset.”
    “Probably because I am.“
    “It’s not my mother, is it?“ he asked, looking suddenly wary.
    Jane managed to laugh. “No.“ She almost added, “Not this time,“ but resisted the temptation. “It’s that jerk Lance King.“
    “He’s here?“
    “Here? Of course. How could you have missed him?”
    Mel put his arm around her and walked her slowly back through the kitchen. Jane noticed that the volume of the party had gone back up to normal. “He must have left. Thank goodness. Maybe Ginger arranged for that airplane crash after all.”
    By the time she finished explaining who Ginger was and what she meant, Jane felt considerably better. “Thanks for listening,“ she said, leaning her head