“Yeah, that kind of wicked person drives people over the brink and makes them do things they shouldn't. Evil is contagious, you know.”

4

The class was to meet in the basement of the city hall, which was an overly cute Tudor-style building adjoining the mall. It had been built only three years earlier, and there had been the usual public carping about the expense and style. Its critics said it looked like a Disneyland city hall, needing only a dwarf at the entrance. Its defenders claimed it had dignity and grace. To Jane, it was just a building she visited annually to get Willard his dog tags. The ground floor was a warren of little closet-sized offices for the mayor and the public works people. The basement housed the traffic court, which was, tonight, doing double duty as a classroom. Jane, Shelley, and Cecily made their way down the rather steep steps with a sense of happy anticipation, which was obliterated when they entered the room.

Jane had never actually seen Mrs. General Pryce. Only heard about her distasteful exploits. But she recognized her instantly. Not so much a big woman as an impressively built one, Mrs. Pryce had a pouter pigeon figure—skinny legs, reasonable hips, but an enormous bosom. She was so thoroughly corseted that she looked as if a person could bounce a handball off her—if that person had no sense of self-preservation. Pryce had a face like a bulldog; the same prominent, determined jaw and protuberanteyes, the whole unattractive visage surrounded by an elaborate array of tight purple curls. She was, naturally enough, sitting front row center of the makeshift classroom. She must have gotten there a good quarter hour early to assure herself of this position. Poor Missy, Jane thought.

Jane's mother took a deep breath and approached the older woman. "Mrs. Pryce? I'm Cecily Grant. Mrs. Michael Grant. We met in Portugal some years ago. My daughter, Jane Jeffry, is your neighbor.”