Poisoned Pins (32 page)

The topic was not amusing me. “Not yet. Peter thinks we ought to give her some time to get used to the idea, and then go for a visit. Will you loan me a pair of jodpurs?”

“Yes, but they'll make your thighs look fat.”

I brooded for a moment, then said, “Did you happen to encounter Pester the Jester this afternoon?”

“Oh my, yes. I couldn't take my eyes off his cod-piece.”

I told her about the letters Caron and Inez had received from the history teacher. “They're appalled, of course, and were rambling about their constitutional
right to spend the summer sulking. I didn't have the heart to remind them that they'd already had their fifteen minutes of fame a month ago, when they were interviewed by the media after that unfortunate business with the disappearing corpse.”

“Fame is fleeting,” Luanne said.

We pondered this philosophical twaddle while we emptied our cups. The remaining beer in the pitcher was getting warm, and a group of noisy college kids arrived to take possession of a nearby picnic table. I told Luanne I'd call her later in the week, then walked the few blocks to my apartment on the second floor of a duplex across the street from the campus lawn. A note on the kitchen table informed me that Caron and Inez had gone out for pizza with friends. It was just as well, since my culinary interests were limited to boiling water for tea and nuking frozen entrees. In the mood for neither, I settled down on the sofa to read. I hoped Peter would call, but as it grew dark outside I gave up and consoled myself with images of him on the firing range, learning how to take down grannies with radioactive dentures and toddlers with teddy bears packed with explosives. Or librarians and booksellers who refused to turn in their patrons' reading preferences to cloak-and-dagger government agencies.

What I did not want to think about was the wedding, scheduled for early September. Not because I was having second thoughts, mind you. I was confident that I loved Peter and that we would do quite nicely when we rode off into the sunset of domestic bliss, which would include not only more opportunities for adult behavior of a most delectable sort, but also lazy Sunday mornings with coffee, muffins, and
The New York Times,
and occasional squabbles over the relative merits of endive versus romaine. He'd been suggesting matrimonial entanglement
for several years, and I'd given it serious consideration. But after my first husband's untimely and very unseemly death, I'd struggled to regain my self-esteem and establish my independence. I hadn't done too well on the material aspects, as Caron pointed out on a regular basis. However, the Book Depot was still in business, and we lived on the agreeable side of genteel poverty.

A distressingly close call with mortality had led me to reassess my situation. The emotional barrier I'd constructed to protect myself collapsed during a convoluted moment when a hitman had impolitely threatened to blow my brains out (not in those exact words, but that was the gist of the message). If commitment meant sharing a closet, then so be it.

The problem lay in my inclinations to meddle in what Lieutenant Peter Rosen felt was official police business. It wasn't simply a compulsion to outsleuth Miss Marple. In all the situations I'd found myself questioning witnesses and snooping around crime scenes, I'd never once done so for my personal satisfaction—or to make fools of the local constabulary. It just happened. Peter, with his molasses brown eyes, curly hair, perfect teeth, and undeniable charm, never quite saw it that way. He'd lectured me, had my car impounded twice, threatened me with a jail cell, and attempted to keep me under house arrest. One had to admire his optimism.

I was going to have to sacrifice my pursuit of justice in order to maintain domestic tranquility, I thought with a sigh. Somewhere buried within the male psyche is a genetic disposition to drag home the carcass of a woolly mammoth to display to the tribe. Women, quite clearly, are above that sort of thing. We only desire to tidy things up.

I tried to return to my novel, but the specter of the wedding still loomed. The ceremony itself would be low-key and aesthetically appropriate. Jorgeson, Peter's partner, had offered us the use of his garden. Lu-anne had insisted on handling the reception food and drink. I would, when I had the wherewithal, purchase a modest dress at the mall. Peter would no doubt wear one of his Armani suits. Caron was the designated maid of honor. She'd been unenthusiastic about the up-coming event, ambivalent at best, but a few weeks earlier she and Peter had gone off for a long lunch, and she'd come home in a suspiciously elated mood. Neither of them would elaborate on the negotiations.

It wasn't as though we were going to be married in a church amid all the pomp and piety, but I have an aversion to any kind of formal ceremony, especially one that obliges me to wear panty hose. I'd barely survived Caron's kindergarten graduation. Carlton and I had eloped, and ended up being married in a leaky chapel during a thunderstorm. The justice of the peace's wife had served chocolate chip cookies and flat ginger ale afterward. I remember the cookies better than I do the actual exchange of vows. Carlton must have, too, which would explain why he'd been in the company of a buxom college girl when his car collided with a chicken truck on a slippery mountain road. The college administration had done its best to hush up this particular detail, since liaisons between instructors and students were a big no-no. When a local writer threatened to expose the tawdry business, along with several other skeletons in the faculty lounge closet, she'd been conveniently silenced. I'd been high on Detective Rosen's list of suspects, which had not made for an auspicious inaugural relationship, although in retrospect, it had been flattering.

I resolved to stop fretting about the wedding, at least for the rest of the evening, and gave my attention to Lady Cashmere's stolen jewels and the mysterious light in the chapel.

 

The following morning I was perusing the fall reading lists from the area junior highs and high schools. Nothing was remotely controversial, indicating the religious right had cinched in the good ol' Bible Belt another notch or two. Intellectual constipation was not too far in the future. I'd gone into my tiny office to hunt up some catalogs and start calculating orders when the bell above the door jangled.

I went back into the front room, my fingers crossed that Pester the Jester was not coming back to further annoy me. A couple were waiting for me. The woman had short dark hair, a flawless complexion, and large, wide-set eyes that were already appraising me. The tiny wrinkle between her eyebrows suggested that she was less than impressed. Although she appeared to be no more than thirty years old, her white blouse and gray skirt gave her the serious demeanor of an executive assistant or a bureaucrat. That, and the briefcase she was carrying.

“Mrs. Malloy?” she said, daring me to deny it.

I chose not to be intimidated despite the mess on the counter and the cobwebs dangling from the rafters. The original structure of the Book Depot dated back to the days when passenger and freight trains had been vital to a burgeoning rural town. I still relied on an antiquated boiler for what heat I could coax out of it. Many of the cockroaches I encountered daily were likely to be nonagenarians, and some of the mice had gray whiskers. “May I help you?”

“I'm Fiona Thackery, the history teacher at the high
school. I believe your daughter is taking my AP class in the fall.” I nodded warily. “I'm sure she'll do fine,” the woman continued. “I'm here to talk to you about the Renaissance Fair in two weeks. I realize this is short notice, but the idea came to me while I was on vacation after the semester ended. I attended one, and thought it would be a wonderful project. My students will have the opportunity to make history come alive, not only for themselves but also for all the children and the community. Profits will go to Safe Haven, the battered-women's shelter. I do hope you'll add your support.”

“I'm pretty busy these days,” I said, unmoved by her slick sales pitch.

Her consort cleared his throat. He was perhaps a bit older than she, but two inches shorter and significantly less polished. His face, pudgy and pale, was marred by the remnants of acne, and his hair looked as though he'd cut it himself—in the dark. He was wearing wrinkled slacks, a short-sleeved white dress shirt, and a bow tie. He reminded me of a suburban missionary. “I'm . . . ah, Julius Valens. I teach in the drama department at the college. Well, I don't teach acting or anything like that. My area is set construction, lights, technical stuff.”

“Thank you, Julius,” said Fiona. “I'm sure Mrs. Malloy appreciates knowing your field of expertise.” She took a file out of her briefcase and handed it to me. “This is the schedule of events during the fair. I've included a copy of the information I'll be handing out to the students this afternoon, which will explain in more detail the various booths, concessions, and staged presentations over the two days. Members of ARSE will participate. Are you familiar with the organization?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “purple tights and all.”

She frowned. “Not all of us are fools, Mrs. Malloy. I've only been a member for a year, but I've encountered very few court jesters. Most of the men prefer to wear the garb of knights and royalty. Our fiefdom is honored to be under the leadership of the Duke and Duchess of Glenbarrens. They've offered their farm for the fair. I'd planned on holding it at the high school or even on the college campus, but we can generate more profits with the sale of ales and mead. Please let me assure you that none of the students will have anything to do with the alcoholic beverages, and any of them caught indulging will be punished.”

“Were thumbscrews in use during the Renaissance?” I asked.

“I'll look into it,” she said with her first attempt at a smile. It softened her face and gave her a faint glow. I realized she was quite pretty, if not a classic beauty. Julius seemed to agree with me; he was gazing at her with unabashed adoration. Ignoring him, she added, “Now what we'd like to do is stage a few short events in front of your store in order to create curiosity and start selling advance tickets. It won't be the least bit inconvenient for you. Julius will hang a few banners and set up the sound equipment. There will be sword fights, musical presentations, and crafts demonstrations. I was thinking we could do this tomorrow and Friday this week, and Monday and Wednesday next week, for no more than an hour at a time.”

I considered her proposal. “I don't want access to the store blocked. I'm certainly in favor of raising money for Safe Haven, but I can't risk losing sales.”

Julius nodded. “We understand that, Mrs. Malloy. It'll take no more than half an hour to set up, and about the same when it's over. So two hours, altogether.”

“And,” Fiona said, “it will draw a huge crowd. You
can feature books on the Renaissance in your window displays.”

“Erasmus is always a bestseller in the summer.”

“I'm sure he is. Julius, check for outlets for the sound equipment. I'll do some measuring outside so we'll be prepared to hang the flags and banners. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Malloy. We'll see you tomorrow afternoon.” She was taking a tape measure from her briefcase as she went out the door.

“I don't remember agreeing to this,” I said to Julius as he began to crawl along the baseboard under the front windows.

“Fiona can be forceful, but she's usually right. Last year she had to go in front of the school board to get their approval to revamp the AP reading lists. This spring almost every student who took the test scored high enough to receive college credit.”

“How long has she been teaching at the high school?” I asked.

Julius plopped down on his bottom and looked up at me. “Just three years. A year ago the AP teacher retired for what was euphemistically called ‘personal reasons.' According to the gossip in the teachers' lounge, she was spiking her coffee with brandy every morning and nodding off during classes. Fiona anticipated the likelihood that the woman would be fired and began campaigning for the position. She's a fighter. She made it through college on academic scholarships, while working at the campus library and tutoring on the side. She has no patience with slackers.”

“Is that so?” I said, beginning to wonder how Caron would fare in the history class. Her grades were always fine, but I'd been called in for more than my fair share of teacher-parent conferences over the years. She had her own file in the principal's office, and even the custodians
greeted me by name. I realized Julius was waiting for me to say something. I opted to change the subject. “Are you a member of ARSE?”

“No, I mean not yet, but I'm going to join. I've been busy with the college productions all year, and I moonlight at several community theaters in the area. My assistants this year were more trouble than help; I couldn't trust them to do anything right. And Fiona can be demanding. She bought a little house as an investment, and I'm helping her fix it up whenever I have free time. We're engaged, but it's not official until I can save up enough for a ring. I'll be up for assistant professor soon, and I'm hoping to get a decent raise. Fiona enjoys teaching, but she'd really like to stay home and have children. She says she can put all her excess energy into volunteer work.”

I had no hope of finding a subject that would not lead back to Fiona Thackery. “Well, good luck,” I said lamely, then picked up the catalogs I'd dropped on the counter. “I'll be in my office if you have any questions.”

Julius stood up and brushed off his dusty knees. “These outlets should be adequate, although the wiring is worn. I'll bring extra fuses, just in case.”

“And I'll review my fire insurance policy, just in case,” I said as I headed for my cramped office.

I held my breath until I heard him leave, then settled back with the reading lists, catalogs, and order forms to try to predict how many students would prefer to buy their books (and handy yellow study guides) from the Book Depot rather than the brightly lit, sanitized chain bookstores at the mall. If I understocked, I'd lose sales, but if I overstocked, I'd be forced to return unsold copies and lose favor with my distributors. The bookseller's version of Russian roulette.