Poisoned Pins (28 page)

No motorcycles thundered in the alley, nor could I hear music and/or screams from the Kappa Theta Eta house. Eleanor must have supervised its orderly evacuation by now, I thought as I sipped scotch and studied the ceiling for celestial inspiration.

Eleanor might be a nonpareil of efficiency, but she had been wrong about her husband. The manager of the Hideaway Haven had recognized him, and it was impossible to imagine it as a site for seminars and faculty banquets. Had she also been wrong about his itinerary? Instead of being in the midst of a legal convention (or a hand of blackjack), could he be in the midst of searching the now vacant sorority house for the damning photographs?

I went to my bedroom and peered hopefully for a pinprick of light from a hobbling flashlight. No light appeared, nor did a disembodied white face drift across a window pane like a reflection of the man in the moon. Only one side of the house was visible, and there was no reason to think he'd be accommodating enough to show himself on command.

All I'd do was circle the house from a prudent distance, I told myself as I went downstairs and paused in my yard to dredge up an ounce of courage. Foolhardy heroines might creep around attics and dungeons, but I'd had a minor problem with that in the past—and only the arrival of the police had allowed me to remain in any condition to relate the highlights to future grandchildren.

Impressed by my singular display of common sense,
I strolled along the sidewalk, my eyes darting furtively at the windows on the upper stories. Once past the house, I cut through the yard of a fraternity house and emerged in the alley, ascertained no cars were lurking in the shadows, and moved cautiously along the side of the sorority house.

At the edge of the porch, I stopped and retraced my path back to the alley, scanned the windows on the back facade, and then went into the area of the yard that adjoined my duplex.

Five minutes later I'd completed the circle and seen absolutely nothing worthy of my stealth. I leaned against the porch and acknowledged the possibility that John Vanderson was in Las Vegas, Debbie Anne and Arnie were at the Dew Drop Inn, Winkie and Ed were cruising down a moonlit country road, Rebecca and Pippa were entertaining men at the Hideaway Haven, Eleanor Vanderson was on the telephone with a neurologist, and I was a failure as an amateur sleuth. A bruised and battered failure, approaching forty, accused of being menopausal, with a daughter already embroiled in a life of crime. And able to alienate a man in a single bound.

A small white form streaked past me and disappeared into the shrubbery. Gulping back a shriek, I stared as it clawed its way up the side of the house to the windowsill, and, with a yowl, squirmed beneath the screen and vanished. Katie had chosen to ignore Eleanor's eviction orders, or some inkling of instinct had compelled her to return home.

If the cat wanted to prowl through the house all night, it was not my concern. Winkie would know where to look and come back for it in the morning. My charitable impulses were confined to my own species, and I had teeth marks on my hand and ankle to reinforce my absolute lack of interest in the cat's well-being. Right.

Loathing myself, I pushed my way through the hostile shrub, lifted the edge of the screen, and gracelessly
slithered over the windowsill and onto the table in Winkie's kitchen.

“Katie!” I whispered, lacking the sibilance to hiss.

No amber eyes appeared in the dark. Repeating her name softly, I squirmed across the table and managed to get my feet on the floor without banging my head in the process. There was enough light from outside for me to see that Katie was not in the immediate vicinity. The doors to the bedroom and bathroom were closed, precluding her escape into those rooms. I went into the living room. The furniture remained, but personal effects had been removed.

I glumly noted that the front door of the suite was ajar, thus allowing the cat access to the entire house. And I, too, had access to the entire house, I realized as I spotted Winkie's key ring on the coffee table. Beside it was a pink paper cat with the standard saccharine message and a handwritten note explaining how sorry Winkie was that in her haste to move she'd not had the opportunity to deliver the keys to Eleanor's house. What a shame, I thought as I picked up the key ring and went to the foyer, reminded myself of my mission, and dutifully called the cat as I roamed through the kitchen, living room, lounge, dining room, and hallway of the wing where the girls had lived.

I stopped outside what had been Jean's room. The last time I'd been in there, all of her possessions had been packed in boxes and suitcases and piled in the middle of the room. Eleanor could have arranged for them to be sent to California, but she might have overlooked this chore in her haste to empty the house.

I tried more than half the keys before I happened upon the right one. Inside the room was adequate light to determine that the boxes and suitcases were still there. Jean wouldn't have hidden the packet somewhere else in the sorority house, I thought as I sat down on the edge of the stripped bed and propped my chin with my hand. Even the ritual closet would be risky, since the sorority sisters went in and out of it on meeting nights. I recalled what I could of Jean's possessions,
trying to envision each as a receptacle for photographs featuring the dean of the law school in ignominious disarray. When enlightenment failed to strike, I turned on the light, sat down on the floor, and opened the first box.

More than an hour later, I knew that none of the books had been mutilated to provide a hiding place. Nothing had been tucked in a shoe, a pocket, a cosmetics case, a briefcase, or anything else with tuckability. She'd accumulated a daunting number of pink paper cats with coy handwritten messages, but they seemed to be her only concession to college memorabilia.

Except for the incriminating photographs, which she'd been selling. It occurred to me that Rebecca might have found them when she packed Jean's possessions, and was settled in a new apartment busily modifying a payment plan for John Vanderson—one that precluded dark alleys.

I'd searched in a neat and efficient fashion, conscientiously replacing items once I'd examined them. I gathered up the stuffed cats and lobbed them one by one into a box, wishing I could gather up Katie as easily and return her to her mistress. The cats made quite an armful . . . as did the beers Doobie'd served to the girls . . . and the used textbooks that Debbie Anne Wray had brought to the Book Depot on what Caron would describe as a Fateful Day.

New textbooks cost a fortune, and used ones were worth a decent amount of money. Selling them wouldn't generate as much as the return of a coat that had been shoplifted from a mall store, nor would their resale be as lucrative as that of a personal computer or a portable television.

The stuffed cats tumbled from my arms as I returned to the bed and lay down. Were the Kappa Theta Etas, under the leadership of Jean Hall, raising money not only from prostitution and blackmail, but also from theft? I remembered what Peter had said about Arnie's patronage of a known fencing operation. With the owner of the pawnshop in prison, had Arnie taken over
the business? It would explain his newfound ability to pay rent and buy beer at the Dew Drop Inn, and it would explain why he and Rebecca were acquainted, why he'd parked in the alley at midnight, and why he'd been outside the house and able to avail himself of occasional photo opportunities. Like any ambitious businessman, he'd provided curbside pickup and delivery service.

Finally I had something that I had to tell the police, even if it meant facing Peter. Surely he and Officer Pipkin would be so grateful for the tip that they could restrain themselves from physical intimacy long enough to congratulate me on my brilliance. The serial numbers on the computers stashed in the upper-story rooms would prove my hypothesis, and Arnie could be surprisingly compliant when invited to confess to various crimes. The police would question the entire membership of the sorority, and the girls would break down eventually and incriminate each other with the enthusiasm they evinced for the Kappa hymn, as would Winkie if she was aware of what her young thoroughbreds had been doing. Debbie Anne was apt to turn up along the way, especially when the manager of the Hideaway Haven and his buddy found it expedient to adopt a more cooperative and loquacious attitude.

And then, I told myself as I arose from the bed and again gathered up the cats, I would take the Herodian approach and wash my hands of the entire business.

As I tossed the last stuffed cat into the box, I decided to make a quick search for the animate one, then exit in a more dignified fashion and call Peter from my apartment. If I interrupted anything, I would offer not a single word of apology, but would simply relate everything I'd learned over the last few days, efface his name from my mind, and inquire about real estate prices in St. Mary Mead. Caron could join me when she was paroled.

I noticed a stray cat under the desk and picked it up, and had started back to the box when I realized that it might serve a more important purpose than interior decor.
I examined the cat's seams for indications that it had undergone surgery on at least one occasion. It had not, but I dragged the box next to the desk and methodically examined all the cats. A particularly pink one with a dumbstruck expression proved to be a pajama bag with a pouch that contained a nightgown, a pair of lacy underpants, and a thin packet of photographs.

Feeling as dumbstruck as the cat feigned to be, I dropped it in the box and opened the flap of the packet. There were four prints and strips of film encased in cellophane sheaths. I swallowed several times, trying to convince myself that I was in no way behaving pruriently, but I finally slipped the packet into my pocket and decided to wait until I was home before I discovered just how depraved Dean Vanderson and the Kappas could be.

I flipped off the light and went into the hallway. Before I could take a step, I heard the front door close with a faint yet discernible click. It was not a welcome sound. I'd allowed Jean's door to lock behind me, and I knew how long it would take to find the right key and stay inside the room until whoever was in the foyer was gone. Too long.

Trying to convince myself that a campus officer had dropped by to check the house, I waited for him to turn on a light in the foyer. Instead, I saw the sweep of a flashlight at the end of the hallway. “Oh, dear,” I mouthed silently as I crept across the hall and into the bathroom, where no exterior light glinted on the pink tile surfaces.

Earlier I'd scorned the addle-brained gothic heroines who forever put themselves in peril. I'd assured myself I was much too clever to be stalked in a brooding manor house. What a pity I hadn't listened a little harder, I thought as I strained to hear footsteps in the hallway—or the sound of someone leaving through the front door.

Something brushed against my leg. Terrified that I was in the company of a rat or someone's pet boa constricter
that had escaped in the house, I clamped my hand over my mouth and looked down. The very same cat that had bitten me twice and eluded me all over the house now had decided that my left ankle was its best friend. It slinked and slithered around me, caressing my leg with its tail, then abruptly began to purr like a vacuum cleaner.

“Ssh!” I hissed. If anything, it purred more loudly as it circled my leg. Feline psychology was not my field, and all I could do was stare helplessly at it.

The overhead light came on. No longer in the mood for affection, Katie scampered out the doorway. I was too startled to do anything more than gape at Eleanor Vanderson, who appeared equally unnerved.

“Claire?” she said in a shaky voice. “Oh, thank goodness it's you. I was afraid I was about to encounter—I don't know. I'm so relieved it's you.” She came into the bathroom and leaned against a sink, her carefully applied makeup doing little to counteract her paleness. My reflection in the mirror behind her indicated I fared no better; the whiteness of my face above the black shirt gave me the appearance of a character in a freeze-frame from an old movie.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

She turned around, twisted the tap, and splashed a scant handful of water on her face. Glancing at me in the mirror, she said, “I came by to make sure the house was locked, and noticed a light in one of the windows in this wing. I assumed one of the girls had been negligent, but there've been so many prowlers and trespassers of late that I thought I'd better check.”

I told her how I'd seen Katie enter the house and gone to the rescue, omitting to elaborate on my subsequent actions. The words echoed off the ceramic surfaces, sounding hollow and even less probable as they faded. “I panicked when I heard the door, and came in here to hide,” I concluded.

“It's very kind of you to worry about Katie, Claire, but it may have been foolhardy on your part. I'm certain that I saw a light. Someone else may be in the
house at this moment.” Shivering, she glanced at the hallway, then tried to give me the standard Kappa smile. “There's no need to be melodramatic, is there? It's probably Rebecca or Pippa coming by for something overlooked during her packing, or even Winkie. In fact, she may have come to search for our runaway kitty, had no luck, and left through the back door by the time I came in the front.”

“I didn't see anyone, but there are a lot of rooms and hallways,” I said truthfully. “I don't know why I thought I could find the cat in this labyrinth.”

Eleanor had recovered enough to glance at her watch, shake her head, and say, “Well, let's make sure the light is out, then we can both go home. John promised to call me from his hotel room at eleven, and he'll be frantic if I'm not there.” She took a key ring from her purse and sailed out of the bathroom, confident that I would accede to her plan.

She hesitated only a second, then zeroed in on the door of Jean Hall's room and utilized her flashlight to pick out the correct key. “How peculiar,” she said as she turned on the light and frowned at the pyramid of suitcases and boxes. “I thought Winkie had sent the poor girl's things to her parents. It was only a matter of telephoning one of the moving-van firms and arranging for them to include all this in their next shipment to California. I wonder why she never did.”