Poisoned Pins (17 page)

“No! There most definitely would not be enough left over to buy anything. I have some insurance, but—” I held in a groan as I looked at the old, dry wood of the rafters, the numerous racks of flammable paper products, the cardboard cartons stacked alongside the wall, the stacks of invoices and order forms, the catalogs. I could have renamed the place Tinder Box Books, had I been in a whimsical mood. I was not. “Did this man say anything else?”

“Not really,” Caron said, still appraising the possibilities of a lovely check from the insurance company. “He said something about if you had the negatives, you'd better give them to him.”

“What negatives?”

“He didn't say, and frankly, I was getting pretty tired of him. I said I wasn't your private secretary, told him to call you himself if he had any more obtuse messages, and then Inez and I left before he could call a third time. That's why we were late getting here.”

“What about his voice?” I said. “Could you tell anything about his age? Did he have an accent?”

“He wasn't a kid, and he didn't have an accent. He was trying to be clever by talking in a whisper, which meant I had to keep asking him to repeat things until I was ready to scream. If you don't have decent manners on the telephone, you shouldn't be allowed to use it.” She crossed her arms and gave me a cold look. “Don't you need to go do whatever it is? Inez and I don't have all afternoon, you know. We're supposed to be at Rhonda's at six, and we have to do our hair.”

I walked back to my apartment in a daze of confusion and anger. Who was this anonymous jerk? I resented being threatened in such a manner; if nothing else, it wasn't sporting. I could do nothing in retaliation until I knew who he was. I didn't have his damn negatives—of what? It was possible Ed Whitbred had them, or had them until Arnie was turned loose once again on an insufficiently leery society. There were other cameras in Farberville. There were plenty of cameras in the Kappa Theta Eta house, if the number of coy photographs was indicative.

I sat on the edge of my porch. If the prowler was also my caller, he might have been searching the third floor of the sorority house for the mysterious negatives. Was he being blackmailed by one of the girls who'd gone home for the summer? The last thing I needed was another Kappa Theta Eta cluttering up my admittedly tenuous scenario.

Next door, Winkie came out onto the porch, holding an unhappy cat. She looked almost comical in a fussy pink broad-brimmed hat that seemed to have settled on her head of its own accord and refused to leave. After carefully locking the door, she headed for the sidewalk.

“Any word from Debbie Anne?” I called as I approached
her I stopped out of reach of Katie's teeth, although I was in range of her malevolent gaze.

“No, nothing at all. It's been three days now, and I do hope the police will take her disappearance more seriously. Her mother has been calling me at all hours of the day and night, and there's nothing I can tell her. Rebecca and Pippa are quite sure Debbie Anne doesn't have a boyfriend. I called those few girls who were her friends during the year. They could suggest nothing, and none of them has heard from her. This is by far the most inconsiderate stunt she's ever pulled. That girl will never be a Kappa.”

“Do you have a copy of her class schedule? I thought I might speak to her professors and see if any of them have any ideas.” I held my breath and smiled with the shiny expectancy of a rushee.

“I suppose I do, but it's inside and Katie has an appointment at the vet's office.” She hesitated, then said, “I'll go get you a copy. It certainly can't hurt to speak to them, and if we don't find her soon, I'm going to lose my temper and be brusque with Mrs. Wray. You hold Katie while I go back inside.”

The cat was thrust into my arms in a manner not unlike that I'd utilized with the camera. “Don't do this! Please!” I said, but Winkie was already on her way to the door, muttering about late-night calls and inconsiderate girls. It took the cat only a few seconds to realize what treachery had befallen her, and she let out a yowl of outrage that emphasized her shared ancestry with jungle cats. Less than a second later, she bit me on the hand so viciously that I instinctively flung her to the ground as I stumbled backward.

I gaped first at the blood welling from the jagged wound, and then at a flash of white as the cat vanished into the shrubbery. Blinking back tears, I fumbled in my purse for a tissue and tried unsuccessfully to stop the blood. The wound throbbed so sharply that I began to feel light-headed. I sank down on the lawn and cradled my hand, oblivious to my surroundings, and therefore was startled when Winkie said, “What happened?
Where's Katie? Why are you behaving so oddly?”

I showed her the bite and grimly related the story. “And she ran that way,” I said, gesturing with my uninjured hand. I did not continue with a description of what I dearly hoped the animal would encounter on its escape route.

“This is dreadful,” Winkie said. “We must take action immediately, Claire.”

“The bleeding has stopped, and I don't think I'll need stitches. I have some iodine at my—”

“We must find Katie,” she interrupted sternly. “Her appointment at the vet is in less than an hour. I was taking her there so that she can be rendered incapable of reproduction. An irresponsible individual knocked the screen off my window several days ago, and Katie spent the night outside the house. I don't intend to have kittens underfoot in that cramped apartment.” She went to the pertinent shrub and called, “Here, kitty kitty kitty. Come on, Katie; that woman won't hurt you again. Come to Winkie.”

I stood up, the tissue still pressed to my hand, and tried to stir up a trace of sympathy from her. “She bit me once before. I tried to tell you when you shoved her at me.”

“That's ridiculous. Katie doesn't bite.” She held out a piece of paper. “Here's Debbie Anne's class schedule. I think I'd better go back inside and have a glass of wine. Being a housemother isn't easy by any means, but this is becoming more than I can bear. Eleanor will have to find someone else for the remainder of the summer term. The pressure's entirely too much for me.” She went into the house without so much as a glance at my bloodied tissue. Kappa Theta Eta house-mothers were not, apparently, instructed in the gentle art of first aid.

After I'd doctored the wound as best I could, I set off toward the campus, fantasizing about a rustic cabin somewhere in the woods. No one sat beside me on the deck as the sun sank behind the mountains; I was alone
with a glass of scotch and a plate of crackers and cheese. I amended it to freshly baked bread and expensive Brie. No one whined, complained, bit me, badgered me, scolded me, or, most of all, sent me into the arms of a tattooed motorcyclist while reclining with a member of the campus security force.

I went into the yellow brick building that housed the education department. Since it was summer school, Debbie Anne was taking only two classes, and at that moment should have been in a classroom being instructed in Reading Readiness Skills, a.k.a. EE1009.

“Whatever they are,” I growled, then accosted a perky young thing in jeans and asked where the room was. The door was ajar, and I hovered in the hall until I determined that Debbie Anne was not among the half-dozen girls numbly gazing at a blackboard as an elderly woman droned at them.

The instructor of Developmental Psychology (EE1147) was not in his or her office, unless he or she was cowering behind a locked door. A second perky young thing informed me that classes would be out in ten minutes, and she didn't know when I might catch Professor Costandaza. She herself had taken the psych course from Professor Simpson because he was “an absolute hunk” and it was all she could do not to “like literally seduce him right there on the desk, you know.”

Fearing for the future of civilization, I read the notices on the bulletin board, gleaming tidbits about symposiums on A-V equipment, potluck dinners, and opportunities to study abroad for a zillion dollars. Eventually something buzzed and students drifted out of classrooms. I went to the original room. The woman was packing her briefcase, and was minimally cordial when I introduced myself and told her my proposed topic.

She consulted her watch, sighed, and said, “I have a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. I heard about the Wray girl on the local news last night, and there was
something in the newspaper. Very sad business, that, but faculty meetings come right after death and taxes.”

“I was hoping you could tell me about Debbie Anne. Everyone seems to have a strong opinion about her, but also a biased one.”

“When I watched the news, I tried to remember what I could of her. I had her last spring in a class, and again this semester. She was shy and quiet, rarely contributing to the discussion, turning in ordinary, uninspired work.” She paused to think. “I do recall being surprised when she wore a sorority sweatshirt to class one day. Fewer and fewer of them major in education these days, but I used to have hordes of them in my classes—to my dismay. Now, I understand, they're all majoring in business. She didn't seem the sorority type.”

“Did Debbie Anne ever cheat or lose her temper?”

The woman picked up her briefcase. “No one cheats in Reading Readiness Skills; it's much too easy. As for losing her temper, I don't know that she has one to lose, Mrs. Malloy. She's just one of those drab, modestly intelligent, poorly prepared girls from a little town. If this hadn't happened, she'd squeak by, graduate, and go teach in another little town in order to send us more poorly prepared girls.”

I went outside and sat on a stone bench. For the first time in nearly three days, I'd made progress, albeit measurable in millimeters rather than leaps and bounds. Debbie Anne Wray was a soggy-nosed ninny, accepted into the sorority by an economic imperative and rejected by a social one. Jean Hall had forced her to do something illegal, and this had sent Debbie Anne into hiding. Someone else had gained access to Debbie Anne's car key and run Jean down in the alley.

There were a few minor unanswered questions, to be sure, along the lines of who and what and when and where and why and how, but I wasn't nearly as confused as I'd been earlier. Contemplating my next target, I stood up, smiled vaguely at a couple of students, and decided to go back to the Book Depot, where I
could make lists in the amateur-sleuth tradition. I would be the sole champion of the cause—the innocence of Debbie Anne. The police detectives could sit and wait. I would take action, make brilliant deductions, identify the guilty, and rescue the innocent.

And this time, I told myself, Claire Malloy would not cringe from the limelight and allow the police to take all the credit. I'd grant interviews, appear on the evening news, pose for photographs in front of the Book Depot. If the mayor insisted on giving me some sort of award for my civic-minded behavior, I'd accept it with becoming modesty.

As I came around the corner of the library, I was practicing smiles rather than paying any attention whatsoever to the trickle of pedestrians. I thudded into someone, stumbled back, and looked up to offer an apology (with becoming modesty, of course). And found myself face to face with the man in the moon. I goggled at him; he goggled at me.

“You!” I croaked.

He quit goggling and gave me a shove hard enough to send me across the sidewalk and into a very old, very hard tree trunk. My head hit first and then snapped forward, pain ripped along my shoulder, and all the breath swooshed out of my lungs. I fell to the ground, fighting to fend off swirls of blackness and to regain my breath.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice so close that I nearly screamed.

I opened my eyes. The boy squatting in front of me had dark hair and a lean, nearly cadaverous face. I finally found enough oxygen to say, “The man in the moon—I mean, the man who knocked me down—did you see him?”

“I saw someone go around the corner, but I didn't get a good look at him. Maybe you'd better stay down for a few more minutes until everything stops spinning.” He looked over his shoulder at a huddle of students. “Somebody call the campus cops and tell ‘em it's an assault.”

“No,” I said, but as I tried to straighten up, the black blotches flooded my eyes and my ears reverberated as if I'd taken residence in the bell tower . . . or the belfry.

“Just lean back, ma'am,” the boy said patronizingly, no doubt certain he knew what was best for an incapacitated octogenarian who'd identified her assailant as the man in the moon.

“Oh wow, it's Mrs. Malloy!” Pippa squealed as she dropped her books and knelt beside me. “What happened? Did you faint? Caron mentioned that you're experiencing menopause, and that can make you dizzy or—”

“Someone pushed me,” I muttered. There weren't very many students in summer school, but the sidewalk was so crowded that most of them must have been drawn to the drama.

“That's awful! Who?”

“A man,” I said sourly, daring the boy to say a single word. He obligingly stared at the ground. “I crashed into him as I came around the corner, and he overreacted to the lapse in etiquette.”

Pippa dimpled indignantly. “Some men are just plain bullies, aren't they? My mother was playing golf last week and these men played through without any concern for safety or common courtesy. They let anyone in the club these days. Oh, good, here come the campus cops. Maybe it's not too late to find this man. He didn't try to molest you, did he?”

“In the middle of the afternoon next to the library? No, Pippa, he merely removed me from his path.” I recognized one of the uniformed officers approaching as Officer Terrance. The other was a woman, tall and lithe, moving gracefully. I slumped back against the tree trunk and willed myself to pass out. I scrunched my eyes closed. I held my breath. I told myself that the gender of the officer was a coincidence and that I'd had my quota for the day. For the year. I debated whether to make a deal with the devil. What was the worth of my soul compared to the impending humiliation?