Poisoned Pins (12 page)

“Unless she's a skillful actress, she doesn't know what happened,” I said. “When I first saw the flashlight on the third floor, I wondered if she was hiding up there. But it was a man, the same one who parked briefly in front of the house last night while the police were here. He's short and plump, with a round white face and a basically bald head. Does he sound like anyone you know?”

“And he was on the third floor tonight?” Without waiting for an answer, Winkie went into her kitchen, opened and closed the refrigerator, and returned with the decanter and two wineglasses. “This has been too much—all the excitement, the police, the ambulance, prowlers in every nook and cranny. Will you join me?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said as I watched her slosh wine into the glasses. She'd withdrawn her emotions and was the epitome of indecipherable blandness, but it was clear she had a good idea of the identity of the man I'd described. And wasn't going to tell me. “Even if this mysterious man”—I gave the phrase a bit of emphasis—”had access to Debbie Anne's house key, he couldn't have used it to open bedroom doors, could he? They're all keyed differently.”

She handed me a glass and sat down in the rocking chair. “Yes, they are. Each girl has two keys—one for the exterior locks and one for her bedroom. It doesn't make any sense, and I'm beginning to wonder if you might have seen a reflection in the window, perhaps from a car driving through the campus. As for this face, it was nothing more than the man in the moon shining back at you. You did say you'd been drinking beer, dear.”

I took a deep swallow of wine, and when I could trust myself, said, “So I did, and in any case, it wasn't Debbie Anne. Do you have any idea where she could be hiding? Does she have any friends from her hometown who're going to summer school? Is there a professor she might have gone to?”

“The police asked me those questions last night, and all I could say was that we have sixty-seven girls in the house, and I cannot keep track of their friends and confidantes. On the rare weekends when there were no pledge activities, Debbie Anne went home. The pledges are strongly encouraged to involve themselves in Kappa projects in order to strengthen the bonds of sisterhood in anticipation of initiation. Jean was the pledge trainer last year, and she did a marvelous job. She organized picnics, treasure hunts, outings to rest homes and child-care centers, parties with fraternity pledge classes, all sorts of things. I can't remember when a pledge class has been so busy.”

It sounded more like isolation to me, an attempt to erase or at least minimalize their individual personalities and mold them into genuine Kappa material. All that enforced togetherness would have driven me into the nearest built-in closet. I'd endured two years in a dormitory, but I'd done so at a civilized distance, eschewing floor meetings and popcorn parties, and moved into an apartment as soon as it was permitted by the
in loco parentis
policy of the college.

The squeaks of the rocker were barely perceptible as Winkie gazed at the wall above my head. Her eyes darted not from flock to flock, but from thought to
thought, as if she were filling in a crossword puzzle in her mind.

As tempting as it was, I reminded myself I could not shake her until she relented and told me what she suspected. “Debbie Anne said something else that troubles me,” I said conversationally. “Not only was she unaware of Jean's death, she seemed frightened by the idea that Jean might accuse her of something that would end in arrest.”

“Jean? I find that impossible to believe. Jean was one of the few girls who never came home drunk, never failed to sign out for the weekend, never was late for our Monday-night dinners, never skipped a chapter meeting or a house meeting. She was so very responsible, unlike Debbie Anne, who more often than not claimed she'd lost track of the time or had a flat tire or some silly excuse.” She finished her wine, refilled her glass, and sat back to regard me with the smile of a used-car salesman who'd just closed a deal. “Jean Hall was a girl of impeccable character and breeding. No one ever so much as breathed a word against her.”

But someone did run her down in the alley, I considered mentioning, but kept it to myself. Winkie was not going to offer me anything that might explain Debbie Anne's slightly incoherent avowal that Jean had coerced her into something illegal. Girls of impeccable character and breeding didn't do that sort of thing; they simply became Kappa Theta Etas.

The doorbell rang. Winkie patted my shoulder as she went past me and out to the foyer to open the door. “Why, Eleanor,” she said, “whatever brings you here at this hour?”

“I'm so worried about all this, and about you and the girls, and even little Katie. I was at a charity bridge party all afternoon, and this evening at a dreary reception for a faculty candidate. I wanted to stop by and find out if the police have made any progress.”

Winkie remained in the doorway, smiling politely at her guest but managing to shoot a quick—and noticeably panicked—look in my direction. I grabbed the decanter
and glasses and took them into the kitchen, and was relaxed on the sofa by the time Winkie and Eleanor came into the suite.

“Claire,” Eleanor murmured with a gracious nod. “How nice of you to keep Winkie company.”

“She seemed nervous,” I said with an equally gracious nod, “and Pippa and Rebecca are out.”

Eleanor accepted a cup of tea from Winkie. “Has Debbie Anne come back? I heard on the morning news that the car is registered to her parents and that she'd obtained a campus parking permit. It pains me to say it, but the evidence is certainly mounting up against her. I wish I knew how to help her, but we don't even know where she is or how to assure her that . . . we want to get this settled as soon as possible. How terrible for her to be alone at this time, no doubt terrified of what will happen to her.”

I waited for Winkie to mention the call I'd had, but all she said was, “I was just telling Claire what a wonderful girl Jean was, how enthusiastic and energetic. Some of the pledges must have wondered if she was a drill sergeant, considering how busy she kept them.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eleanor said in a strained voice.

“And she herself was always so busy,” Winkie continued. “With her zealous dedication to classes and to house activities, it was a miracle that she found time for a social life. I spoke to her about it, suggesting that she relax and try to enjoy her senior year, but she assured me that she was enjoying it very much.”

“I hope as much as you've enjoyed the year, dear Winkie. All your responsibilities must exhaust you.”

I felt as if I were watching them toss a hand grenade back and forth. Either the room was oppressively warm or they were filling it with inarticulated anger, along with their sugary words and thin, meaningless smiles.

Eleanor unexpectedly lobbed the grenade to me. “Winkie's on call day and night, and as the housemother, she must have a reputation and demeanor above reproach. I'm afraid I myself would find it a relentless burden. Don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, fingering the metaphorical pin and discovering it was loose. “I'd hate to face life without an occasional scotch or a lovely Sunday morning in my shabbiest bathrobe and bare feet.”

I thought I'd passed it to Winkie, but it ended up in Eleanor's manicured fingers. “I understand you have a relationship with that handsome police lieutenant who was here last night. Rosen, isn't it?” She laughed as I opened my mouth to protest. “Farberville's a small town, Claire, and you've gained some notoriety with your involvement in those mysterious cases.” To Winkie, she added, “Our neighbor is a renowned amateur sleuth, which explains why she was so quick and clever when that awful man was prowling in the yard. She knew just what to do.”

It struck me as an opportune moment to mention the most recent prowler, but Winkie again ignored the obvious. “So quick and clever,” she murmured. “So quick and clever.”

I didn't feel quick or clever, and I was tired of the grenade game. If I'd heard anything worthy of my analytical attention, I had no idea what it was. Smothering a yawn, I bade them good night and left, not caring which of them was blown to smithereens, metaphorically or otherwise.

“I hear you went out with another man last night,” Peter said as he came into the Book Depot. During the school year, it was closed on Sunday afternoons, but I was too desperate to risk missing a single sale, and at that particular moment I was considering the possibility of adding a section of Greek-related items. Not virgin olive oil and ouzo, but cutesy coffee mugs, visors, clipboards, and pastel stationery, all with appropriate letterheads. Other stores in town carried that sort of thing, but I was the closest to the campus and might do well. Then again, it would be challenging to put on makeup every morning if I were unable to look at myself in the mirror.

“I'm impressed with the breadth of your surveillance,” I said evenly. “Where have you been? I was beginning to suspect you and Jorgeson were sharing romantic moments at the cabin. The mere thought of such treachery is what drove me to the arms of another man—that, and the need to avoid my daughter until she regains her grip on fiscal reality.”

“That could take years.” Peter propped his elbows on the counter. He wore a cotton sweater rather than a suit, but his cheeks were smooth and I caught a whiff of the after-shave I'd given him for his birthday. After a moment, I realized I'd given him the sweater for Christmas. The rest of his clothing was of his own doing; a lady never proffers trousers or underwear, and the cost of his shoes was comparable to my rent.

“Jorgeson's not bad,” he continued, “but his ankles are bony and he sweats. So who's this guy?”

“Merely one of those potential millionaires one meets on the street every day. As soon as his book hits the best-seller list, he's going to whisk me away to some swanky resort with an employee whose sole duty is to swat mosquitos.”

“I also heard you called 911 last night, and then the campus police, who responded promptly to your latest claim to have seen a prowler at that blasted sorority house. You might as well move in and save yourself the bother of dashing over there every hour.”

I told him about the man I'd seen in the window, adding that I was convinced he was the same man who had stopped in the street the night Jean Hall was killed. “And when I described him to Winkie, she reacted as if she knew him,” I concluded, doing my best to hide my frustration.

“But refused to share the name with you?” He flashed his perfect white teeth at me. “How uncooperative of her. I'll go by tomorrow and see if she'll be more forthright with an officer of the law. Is there anything else you've discovered and failed to share with us?”

I thought about attempting to strike a bargain with him, but I had a feeling he might interpret my offer as blackmail rather than a display of camaraderie. I related the gist of Debbie Anne's call, and said, “She sounded genuinely worried about something Jean was going to do to her, and I doubt she was bluffing. However, I keep characterizing her as a soggy-nosed ninny, but she did graduate from high school and was accepted at Farber College, so she can't be totally devoid of wits. Those who know her better than I seem to think she's devious and deceitful, and capable of manipulation. For all I know, she could be a contemporary Mata Hari with a secret agenda that forbodes ill for the future Kappa Theta Eta alumnae pool. Maybe she hired this prowler and staged her encounter with him to fool us, gave him her keys, and sent him to the house last night to . . .”

“Plant bombs? Bug the bedrooms? Kill the cat?”

“I don't know,” I muttered, unamused by his condescending attitude. There I was, willing to share my ideas and pass along information, and in return, I was rewarded with smirky intonations, delicately arched eyebrows, and those damn teeth. It was time for a new game plan. “What progress have you made? Did you identify any fingerprints in the car?”

“With the exception of some unremarkable smudges, they belong to the person who reputedly occupied Debbie Anne Wray's bedroom at the sorority house, used her toothbrush, and placed the photograph of her parents on the desk. The blood on the bumper, hood, and tires matches that of the victim. A shard of glass from the broken headlight was taken from the body. The prosecuting attorney won't file charges until we have her in custody and can finalize our report, but even if it was an accident, he'll probably opt for negligent homicide and leaving the scene of a personal injury—both felonies. No one admits to having any idea where she is, so we're just waiting for her to get tired of hiding. I suppose we could put a tap on your telephone.”

“Not without a court order signed by Sandra Day O'Connor. If Debbie Anne calls again, I'll persuade her to tell me where she is and you'll be the first to know. But I am not going to allow you to eavesdrop on my calls or monitor my private life as if I were a criminal. How did you know that I had dinner with a man last night?”

“One of the desk sergeants was at the restaurant and said something about it,” Peter said. He had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed to be caught gossiping, which gave me a measure of satisfaction. “I was teasing, Claire. You're perfectly free to see anyone you want, or date other men, or spend the weekend with them. It's increasingly clear that our relationship isn't going in the direction I'd hoped it might. Maybe seeing other people would help both of us figure out what's for the best.”

“Maybe it would,” I said without inflection, inwardly
appalled at the thought of even a second dinner with my science fiction hippie, who was harmless (when not discoursing on his manuscript) but hardly as stimulating as Peter. Rather than allow the conversation to lapse into something more suitable for a romance novel, I told him I had work to do and he huffed away.