Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

True Blue by B. K. Stevens

Dear Grandma,

How are you? I am fine, except Dad’s giving me a hard time about some dumb stuff that happened. Mom’s being mean too, but she always gives me a hard time about stuff like this. Dad is usually cool; he just looks confused, mumbles about me making my own decisions, and finds an excuse to leave the house. Then Mom gets madder at him than at me, and I can pretty much slide past the whole thing. This time Dad’s backing Mom all the way, and I don’t think I can stand up to both of them. It’s not fair.

Please write to him and tell him to back off. Tell him it’s not nice to pressure a little kid. He’ll listen to you — he always does.

Thanks for the fielder’s glove. It is neat. If you straighten Dad out, maybe I’ll get a chance to use it. If not, Little League might be just a memory for

Your loving grandson,

Kevin

Dear Mother,

Kevin’s writing to you too to tell you what a rotten father I am. I’m guessing you’ll hear from him first, since his letters are usually about a sentence long, and mine tend to be a bit longer. This time, to help you understand why I’m coming down so hard on Kevin, I’ll have to tell you about the last case Bolt and I handled.

It all started Sunday morning. The minister pulled Ellen and me aside after church and said somebody had pulled a prank on Kevin’s Sunday school teacher. You remember Miss Prichett — she was my Sunday school teacher too, only she’s about eighty now and even meaner and skinnier than she used to be. Well, somebody put her e-mail address on a mailing list for — well, nasty stuff. You know what I mean — special Web sites and ads for gizmos that are supposed to make to make body parts bigger but probably wouldn’t work even if they were reasonably priced because stuff like that is pretty much physically impossible, isn’t it? Hell, we get junk e-mail like that ourselves, just through our regular server. Apparently, the stuff Miss Prichett’s getting is even raunchier than the stuff everybody gets. Then another teacher heard Kevin and his Little League buddies snickering, and she got the impression that one of the boys had played the joke and the others knew about it. So the minister asked us to have a talk with Kevin.

At first Kevin denied everything, but Ellen kept at him until he finally admitted one of his friends had done it. But he wouldn’t say who. After all, Kevin said, he hadn’t done anything wrong himself, and if he told, his friends would hate him so much for snitching that he might have to drop Little League. That, he said, wasn’t fair. At the time, it seemed to me Kevin was making some good points. Feeling confused, I said he had to make his own decisions, Ellen got steamed, and then, thank goodness, the phone rang.

It was Bolt. A body had been found below Petite Falls — probably an accidental drowning, but there were “odd circumstances pertaining to the case” (that was Bolt’s phrase), so could I please come? I was glad to go. A probable accidental drowning sounded like a walk in the park compared to the heavy ethical issues Ellen and Kevin were getting into. So I kissed her, hugged him, and said they could work it out any way they wanted. Ellen gave me a dirty look, but I pretended not to notice.

I found Bolt, a dozen uniforms and lab guys, and the coroner on the banks of Slushy River, just below Petite Falls. It was cold for November, and Bolt was shivering — he needs a new raincoat with a thicker lining, you should tell him that next time you write him — but there was no snow. The body had been pulled onto the bank and covered by a waterproof sheet. Bolt turned the sheet back, and I took a look. It was a girl, twenty or so, blindfolded with a pale blue silk scarf. Right away, I figured out the blindfold was one of the odd pertaining circumstances Bolt had had in mind.

“Do we know who she is?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” Bolt said, pushing his wispy gray hair back from his face. “We found her coat neatly folded on the bank, with her purse and some other items tucked underneath. Her ID indicates she’s Maggie Warren from Indianapolis, twenty-one as of last month, a sophomore at Culbert College.”

A college kid. I glanced at the coroner. “Cause of death definitely drowning?”

She glared, like she always does when I’m around. “Nothing’s definite till I get her to the lab. But drowning looks right. She’s got some bumps and bruises, including two big bashes on her forehead, but nothing that couldn’t be accounted for by a tumble over Petite Falls and close encounters with the rocks at the bottom. If you ask me, she tried walking across the stepping-stones above the falls, slipped, knocked herself out on the rocks, filled her lungs with water, and that was that.”

I’ve never admitted this to you before, Mother, but you’ve probably always pretty much known: I’ve walked across those stepping-stones myself, lots of times. You always warned me not to, but jeez. It didn’t seem like much of a risk — the stones so flat and close together, and the drop barely ten feet, and the current of Slushy River so sluggish. Even if you slipped, it wouldn’t be a big deal if you had friends standing by — and I always had friends standing by, ready to fish me out or pay me off, depending on whether I made good on the dare. It was dumb, I know, but sometimes, when I really needed a few bucks, it seemed almost sensible. It paid for your Mother’s Day present my junior year in high school, and that’s the last I’m going to say about it.

But this girl — hadn’t she had friends standing by when she started across the stepping stones? Why hadn’t they fished her out when she slipped?

Crouching down, I pushed up the blindfold. She was pretty, but not spectacular: long blonde hair, slender build, and that fresh, open look most girls that age have; even a night in the water hadn’t obscured that. She was well groomed too, from the perfectly rounded fingernails polished a pale pink to the black high heels with thin silver straps around the ankles. The clothes looked expensive — a sleeveless silvery top and sweater made of some soft, slightly shiny material and a black skirt that managed to look short and snug but not sleazy. She wore small silver hoop earrings, a silver necklace that looked sort of lacy and scoopy, and a small, round gold pin on her sweater.

The pin seemed worth a squint. It had a design on it — two squiggles followed by a letter, all in a row. I tried to make sense of it but gave up.

I sat back on my haunches and pointed to the pin. “All Greek to me,” I said.

Bolt squinted in turn. “You’re right, sir!” he said, his eyes taking on that familiar, adoring glow. “It is Greek! Pi Alpha Kappa. A sorority pledge pin, would you say?”

Well, naturally. Bolt reads Greek, or at least knows the alphabet. And naturally, when I’d repeated a cliche as a way of admitting I didn’t know what something meant, Bolt interpreted it as a brilliant observation and was probably already building it into a clue that’d solve the case. It’s like that every time. I know you tell me not to worry, I know you say Bolt’s happy the way things are, but it’s not fair to him. He thinks I’m this great detective and he’s my humble assistant, when really I’m just blurting out dumb stuff, and he’s somehow interpreting the blurts in a way that leads us straight to the murderer before I’ve even figured out if the victim’s really dead. It’s not right, and it’s rough on my nerves. Some day, I’ll make him see the truth.

This time, though, I was too distracted to focus on being fair to Bolt. Evidence was actually sliding into place for me. Culbert student, pledge pin, November — wasn’t that when fraternities and sororities had their Hell Nights or whatever they call them?

“About five years ago,” I said. “That boy from Ohio, the booze — remember?”

“Yes, sir.” Bolt nodded promptly. “1998. Brian Abbott from Akron, eighteen, pledging Beta Gamma Omega at Culbert, told to chug a fifth of vodka on Hell Night, comatose for six days before, thank God, he came to with no apparent ill effects, though four years later he graduated with a GPA of 2.4, which didn’t seem commensurate with the promise he’d shown in high school. I see what you’re suggesting, sir.”

For once, so did I. “What was the name of that dean of students we talked to back then?” I asked. “Cauliflower? Broccoli?”

“Edward Collard,” Bolt said. “Shall I call him, sir?”

“Soon. But let’s not jump to conclusions about how this happened.” I turned to the coroner. “Any signs of a struggle or sexual assault, or of drinking or drugs?”

She shrugged. “Nothing I can see now. I’ll know more when I get her to the lab.”

“Get her there, then,” I said curtly. “Meanwhile, Bolt, let’s have a look around the scene, see if the uniforms have turned up anything.”

They’d turned up a broken bottle of Merlot — good brand, no prints — below the falls, and a hundred and ninety-eight blue M&M’s scattered near the stepping-stones. An earnest rookie said he felt sure two more M&M’s were lurking in the vicinity, and he was determined to find them. I wished him Godspeed, checked the pockets of the girl’s coat, and found a two-inch gold-plated flashlight on one of those little snap-apart chains you use to attach things to other things. A copy of the Atlantic had been tucked under the coat, along with a long-stemmed blue carnation and a small black purse. Sighing, I opened the purse.

It’s a poignant part of the job, Mother. Looking through purses makes victims come alive a little, and that’s tough to take. Not that this purse contained anything remarkable — except the bag from Dollar Delights containing a pink plastic Donny Osmond lint brush and a receipt saying the $1.06 purchase was made at seven twenty-seven last night. Odd. I mean, I like Donny fine, but this girl looked too sophisticated to appreciate a guy who’s just a little bit rock and roll. Everything else seemed normal: a cell phone; a compact; a key ring with a few keys, plus a rabbit’s foot, a small plastic flashlight, and a tiny ballet slipper, all attached to the ring by snap-apart chains; an appointment calendar; an address book; an inexpensive, silver-banded wristwatch; a checkbook; a wallet.

I flipped through the wallet. Eight dollars, no credit cards, an Indiana driver’s license, a Culbert student ID, and pictures — the girl and three other young people, maybe siblings; a middle-aged couple, probably her parents; a clean-cut young man in a blazer with a crest on the pocket, her boyfriend, possibly; and a snapshot showing the girl and four other young women, all very attractive, standing with their arms around each other.

I showed the last picture to Bolt. “Sorority sisters?” I suggested.

He nodded. “Pledge class, most likely — rather small, but as I recall, Pi Alpha Kappa takes just a few girls each year. It does more community service than the larger sororities, though, including youth outreach programs promoting healthful lifestyles.”

Now that he mentioned it, I remembered Kevin had gone to a sorority-sponsored event at his school — a Have Fun Without Alcohol Halloween party, I think it was. Later, Ellen had to tell him to watch his language when he made a crack about Putrid Alpha Krappy parties; maybe that was middle-school code for Pi Alpha Kappa.

I handed the purse to Bolt. “We’ll go through this more carefully later,” I said. “Right now, let’s call that dean.”

We got a recorded message at his office — on a Sunday, I’d expected that. When we tried his home, his wife answered. “He’s on campus,” she said peevishly. “Where else would he be? Home with his wife? Don’t be stupid. Call the student center. He said he was going to an alumni luncheon. If he’s not really there, call back and let me know.”

Ouch. Fortunately, he was there, all right. I broke the news gently.

“Oh good heavens,” Edward Collard said. “One of our students? You’re sure? Drowned? Oh good heavens. Maggie Warren? Yes, I know who she is. Oh, her poor parents. Yes, of course. I’ll meet you at my office in five minutes. Oh good heavens.”

The “oh good heavens” sounded like an older man, but this guy was mid forties, if that. As soon as I saw him, the image from five years ago clicked in — tall, thin, pale, sharp featured, nervous. The hairline had receded maybe another inch since the last time I’d seen him, but the hair rounding off the back of his head was still thick and black and glossy. He unlocked the door to his private office, pointed Bolt and me to matching yellow leather armchairs facing his desk, sat down at his computer, and called up Maggie Warren’s file.

“Poor Maggie,” he said. “A nice girl. She’s faced some challenges but handled them well. Chemistry major, 3.5 average last year. Failed an Intro to Poli Sci midterm this semester, but Dr. Skotten is a demanding professor. So, Officers. How can I help? You needn’t notify the family; I’ll do that.”

“Fine,” I said. “Our concern is figuring out the circumstances of her death. We found her body below Petite Falls. Any thoughts on how it happened?”

“Oh good heavens.” He patted his forehead fretfully, as if still expecting to find hair there. “Those stepping-stones — such a temptation, such a hazard. She must have been taking a solitary stroll when she spotted them. Filled with the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance, she decided to cross. But she lost her balance — that can happen, even to young people as physically fit as our Culbert students.”

“Maybe it happened like that,” I acknowledged. “But some things seem odd. For example, she was blindfolded with a blue silk scarf. Does that suggest anything to you?”

I can’t definitely say he blanched — with a guy that pale, it’s hard to tell when the pastiness level escalates. “Why, the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance,” he said. “That must be why she freely chose to increase the challenge by blindfolding herself. A tragic choice, but not surprising, given the sense of adventure typical of Culbert students. A similarly adventuresome spirit leads sixty-two percent of them to go on our fine study abroad programs. Do you know about our programs? I have some brochures—”

“We also found a Pi Alpha Kappa pledge pin on her sweater,” I said, “and a hundred and ninety-eight blue M&M’s. Any special significance to the color blue?”

This time, he blanched for sure. He turned a paler shade of white, or a whiter shade of pale, however the song goes. “Now that you mention it, blue is Pi Alpha’s signature color. The pledges wear blue scarves during Hell Week — as it happens, last week. And on Hell Night — as it happens, last night — each pledge turns in two hundred blue M&M’s. That’s one of the harmless rituals now typical at Culbert. Here. I’ll show you.” He took a paper from a folder on his desk. “I created these forms after that incident in 1998. It was my first year, and, oh good heavens, I nearly lost my job, though I hadn’t yet had time to repair the damage done by my predecessor. He turned a blind eye to the worst initiation practices, to — oh good heavens, to decadence, to, well, exploitation. Some fraternities — well, the young women were willing enough, and not exactly nice to begin with, but... I now require all fraternities and sororities to turn in lists of Hell Week activities, and I allow nothing that is not completely innocent and safe. See for yourself.”

The list did look completely innocent and safe. And completely dull.

“And these are their only Hell Week activities?” I said. “They wouldn’t sneak something in on the sly, like a blindfolded trust walk across the stepping-stones?”

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t dare. Any fraternity or sorority engaging in unauthorized activities loses party privileges for a full year. I’ve made that my policy, and I’ve stood by it. Thank God, I haven’t actually had to enforce it.”

That sounded good. I turned to Bolt. “Some challenges,” I said, thinking of the tough times the dean had been through with these fraternities and sororities.

Bolt nodded briskly. “Excellent reminder, sir. Dean Collard, you said Miss Warren faced ‘some challenges’ but handled them well. Would you elaborate?”

Damn. I’d forgotten the dean said that. Evidently, he’d forgotten, too. “It’s nothing, Officer,” he said, blushing, bringing his pasty complexion to near pink. “Maggie just had trouble keeping up with tuition payments.”

“She’s from a poor family?” I asked.

“No.” He shook his head in a decisive snap. “Both her parents are employed — her father’s a teacher, her mother’s a nurse — and they own a three-bedroom house and two cars. True, Maggie has three siblings, but according to our financial aid formula, the parents’ income is sufficient for that. And Maggie waitressed for two years before college.” He tapped more computer keys. “My records show she applied for a work-study job this September, but we had to say no. Those jobs are reserved for students with financial need, and she showed no such need. Her own savings are gone, of course, but her parents may have something stashed away, and they could always sell their second car, or take out a second mortgage, or find second jobs.”

I won’t describe the exact circumstances, Mother, but just recently, Ellen had snuggled up and said maybe Kevin would like a sibling. Now, I was extra glad I’d pretended to be asleep. “So you didn’t offer Maggie any help?” I asked.

“Of course I did,” he said indignantly. “I gave her a list of fast-food restaurants seeking employees. Soon after that, I heard she’d pledged Pi Alpha Kappa. I was delighted. The Pi Alpha girls are exceptional, all honors students, and they give more to charity than any other group on campus. And they never get into trouble — no loud parties, no alcohol-related incidents.”

Well, those girls did sound awfully nice — unless they’d blindfolded Maggie, bullied her onto the stepping-stones, and run off in a panic when she fell. When we left, the dean was doing some deep-breathing exercises, summoning up courage to call Maggie’s family.

As we walked across campus, my stomach started to rumble. No wonder — three o’clock, and I hadn’t had lunch. We could grab something at a restaurant, but it seemed silly to bother with lunch so close to dinnertime. Besides, Ellen and I had spent a grim hour going over bills this weekend, and we’d agreed I’d brown-bag it for the rest of the month.

“Doesn’t really make sense,” I remarked to Bolt, figuring he too was thinking about lunch by now. “It’s awful late, and those expenses add up.”

His head jerked back, and that familiar now-I-see-it look popped into his eyes. “You’re right, sir!” he said. “Sophomore year is awfully late to pledge a sorority — most students join as freshmen. And dues, extra charges for living in a sorority house — those expenses do add up. It doesn’t make sense for a girl so concerned about finances to suddenly decide to pledge. Thank you for articulating that so clearly.”

I wasn’t sure of what I’d articulated but decided not to point that out. We’d reached the Pi Alpha house — a modest, sturdy yellow-brick building near campus. The leaves had been raked recently, and two big earthenware pots of orange geraniums flanked the door. The house blended in quietly with the neighborhood, set apart only by a small brass plate above the doorbell, inscribed with the three letters on Maggie’s pledge pin. When we rang the bell, an attractive young woman in a crisp navy blue suit answered promptly. She wore little makeup, and her dark hair was pulled back in a bun.

“Good afternoon,” she said, looking us over quickly. “May I help you?”

“I hope so.” I showed her my badge. “I’m Lieutenant Walt Johnson, and this is Sergeant Gordon Bolt. Are you a member of Pi Alpha Kappa?”

“I am Bianca Flanders, the president,” she said, and stepped back to let us enter.

She asked us to wait in the hall while she got the vice president. I passed the time by glancing at a bulletin board. There were lots of notices: Monday, 7:00 — talk on investment strategies by a broker; Tuesday, 10:00 — self-defense workshop, required; Thursday, 8:00 — makeup workshop; Saturday — 2:00, health seminar, required.

Bianca Flanders returned with another attractive young woman in a crisp gray suit, wearing very little makeup and her long red hair pulled back in a prim ponytail. Bianca introduced her as Nancy Rogers, and we all sat down stiffly in the sorority’s immaculately neat lounge.

“I have some bad news,” I said, watching them closely, “about Maggie Warren.”

They exchanged a look. “We’ve been worried about her,” Bianca said. “She never came back after our scavenger hunt last night. Is she all right?”

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said, “but she’s dead.”

Nancy let out a little gasp. “My God!” she cried, and started sobbing quietly. Bianca walked over to her chair, put an arm around her, and gave her a handkerchief. There were tears in Bianca’s eyes too, but she looked at us steadily.

“That’s horrible, Lieutenant,” she said. “Poor Maggie. How did it happen?”

Their reaction had me stumped. The tears and the gasp seemed genuine, but they weren’t as shocked as you’d expect if this had hit them clear out of the blue. And their outfits, the lounge so neat — it looked like they’d been half expecting the police.

“We’re trying to figure that out,” I said. “Tell me about this scavenger hunt.”

Nancy got her sobs under control, squeezed Bianca’s hand, and gave her a quick, brave little nod. Bianca hugged her briefly, sat down again, and smoothed out her skirt.

“Gladly,” she said, handing me a sheet that had been sitting on the coffee table, right next to a big bowl of blue M&M’s. It was the same Hell Week form Dean Collard showed us. “As you can see, yesterday afternoon we all met at Elaine’s Salon — that’s a tradition, to reward pledges for undergoing the rigors of Hell Week. Then we had dinner at Sushi Gardens, and at 7:00 the scavenger hunt challenges were given out.”

“You see,” Nancy put in, “during the week before Hell Night, the senior members go to stores around town and locate silly, unusual items. We then challenge each pledge to purchase one of those items, but we don’t tell her in which store she can find it. It’s sort of a test of shopping skills. When the pledges find their items, they come back to the house for the initiation ceremony and a little party. No guests — just members.”

Just then, another young woman took a cautious half step into the room. She was heavy and stoop shouldered, with sharply rectangular glasses and a frizzy mass of dull orange hair; she wore baggy lavender jeans, a pea green T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Frodo Forever,” and a faded denim jacket. Nervously, she shifted her battered red book bag from shoulder to shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “Bianca, everything’s updated. I thought I’d put in a few hours at the lab before dinner. Okay?”

“Fine,” Bianca said, looking slightly flustered. “Thank you, Willie.”

The incident, tiny as it was, threw me off my rhythm. I glanced around, trying to get oriented again, and noticed the bowl of bright blue candies. “Mind if I take a few M&M’s?” I asked, reaching. “You must have a thousand.”

“Only eight hundred.” She looked at the bowl sadly. “But of course — please have some.”

The M&M’s gave me a nice little energy surge. “Now, you said this initiation takes place in the house?” I asked. “Not outside somewhere?”

“It took place right in this room,” Bianca said, “at midnight. Why do you ask?”

I ignored the question. “And you worried when Miss Warren didn’t show up?”

“Yes. The other four pledges came here well before the time for the ceremony. Maggie had last called around eight, to say she’d found her scavenger hunt item—”

“Did she call on her cell phone?” Bolt cut in. “The one we found in her purse?”

Nancy hesitated. “I’d guess she used that cell phone, Sergeant, but it’s not actually hers. She didn’t have one, so I lent her mine so she could keep in touch with us. It was, well, a safety measure, since she’d be out alone at night.”

That sounded sensible. Whenever Kevin’s out after dark, Ellen gives him her cell phone. “Did she say anything else when she called?” I asked.

“Just that she’d come here after running some errands,” Bianca said. “We didn’t really start worrying until midnight. Then we called her roommate, Pamela Andrews.”

“This Pamela Andrews isn’t a member of the sorority?” I asked.

“No. She and Maggie roomed together last year, and this year they took a room in Schuster Hall. Then Maggie decided to pledge. Since she’d already paid for her dorm room through first semester, she planned to move to the house in January. That’s when most pledges move in. Anyway, Pamela wasn’t in, so we left a message.”

“At that point,” Nancy said, “we thought Maggie had probably changed her mind about joining. Then, this morning, Pamela called and said Maggie never came back to the room last night. We then called Maggie’s ex-boyfriend, Fletcher Cantrell, but he hadn’t seen Maggie all week. Next, we called the hospitals. They had nothing to tell us.”

“We also called the police.” Bianca’s face hardened a bit, and her voice grew crisper. “You probably have a record of the call. I asked if there might be any information about Maggie Warren. The desk sergeant asked if I were a member of her family. I said no, and he said in that case he couldn’t tell me anything.”

Well, if they’d been worried enough to make all those calls, no wonder they didn’t seem more shocked when we showed up, especially since the sergeant hadn’t been one hundred percent tactful. Or maybe the calls were part of a scheme to cover up what had happened at the real initiation at Petite Falls. “So according to you,” I said, “all your members were in this house last night. Were the senior members here all evening?”

“That’s right,” Bianca said, with a confused glance at Nancy.

“According to you, all the other pledges showed up well before the time for the ceremony,” I said. “Are there witnesses who can confirm that?”

“I don’t know,” Nancy said. Now it was her turn to shoot a confused glance at Bianca. “We don’t let non-members in the house on Hell Night, except Dean Collard. He stopped by at about ten o’clock; he stops by all the houses on Hell Night. Perhaps the neighbors — but you still haven’t told us how Maggie died. Was it, well, a car accident?”

“Was Miss Warren in a car when she left for the scavenger hunt?” I asked.

“No, but she could have been run over,” Bianca supplied quickly. “I’m sure that’s what Nancy had in mind. Was that it? Was Maggie run over?”

That didn’t sound like a real question. “No,” I said. “She drowned.”

This time, they both gasped, and if it wasn’t genuine, they must both be theater majors. “Drowned?” Bianca jumped up from her chair again. “You mean she — drowned? Oh my God! Where? How? How is that possible?”

Just get it out, I decided, and see how they take it. “It’s plenty possible,” I said, my voice a tad brutal, “if you try to walk across the stepping-stones above Petite Falls and slip and hit your head, and your so-called sisters run off and leave you in the river. It’s especially possible if you’re blindfolded with a blue silk pledge scarf.”

“Blindfolded?” Nancy started sobbing again. “Oh, Maggie!”

Bianca stared at me for a full minute. “Her pledge scarf,” she said. “That’s why you asked — my God. You think it was an initiation. You think- No, Lieutenant. Absolutely not. We don’t do that. We don’t do anything like that.”

She sounded so passionate that I felt like apologizing and getting the hell out of there. Then I remembered. “It sure looked like there was a party at Petite Falls last night,” I said. “How else do you explain the wine bottle and the blue M&M’s? That’s right. Blue M&M’s, a hundred and ninety-eight at last count. Think we’ll find two more?”

That really got to Nancy. She stopped crying suddenly and looked straight at me, face hard with fury. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant,” she said. “It wasn’t us. It was — it must have been a man. It must have been some filthy pervert who — who took Maggie by surprise, I’m sure that’s what he did. And he drove her to the falls, and—”

“That’s enough, Nancy,” Bianca said sharply. “Lieutenant, you think Maggie’s death resulted from some initiation ritual. I can say categorically that it did not. If you have more questions, I will answer them tomorrow, with an attorney present. I have Pi Alpha’s reputation to consider, and I will protect it. We’ll go to court if necessary, if defamatory insinuations work their way into the press, for example. Most likely Nancy is right, and Maggie was killed by a deviant who picks his victims at random. Concentrate on ridding the streets of such criminals, not on harassing us. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

Not a theater major after all — pre-law, no question. I felt plenty intimidated, let me tell you, but stuck to my guns. “Not so fast. We want to talk to the other pledges.”

“Not today,” Bianca said decisively. “They’re at the South Street Food Pantry, preparing dinner for the homeless. If you wish to speak to them, you may do so in our attorney’s office tomorrow. Please call if you’d like to schedule an appointment.”

That settled it. I didn’t want some newspaper to get wind of us hassling college girls busily feeding the homeless. So we headed for Schuster Hall to talk to Maggie’s roommate. As we walked, I thought about how neat those girls keep their house and lawn. When I was in uniform, I’d gone to other sorority houses to break up loud parties. Those places had been awful — rotting garbage, spilled beer, little pools of vomit underfoot, and nobody seemed to care. “These girls are more careful than most,” I commented. “Some of those others — messed up and rank.”

Bolt nodded. “Yes, many people do get messed up on rank. Dean Collard, for example, called us both Officer, without regard to our actual ranks. But those girls always called you Lieutenant and me Sergeant. As you say, they’re more careful than most, and they told a careful story. No uncertainty about details, no fumbling for words — when one finished a sentence, the other picked up the narrative without hesitation.”

He was right. Their story had seemed smooth, almost rehearsed. That’d make sense if they were trying to cover something up: they’d worked their lies out in advance to make sure we’d buy their story. “They were really determined to sell it,” I commented.

“Cell it?” Bolt repeated eagerly. “Is that a slang expression for making a call on a cellular telephone? Yes, they did seem determined to cell it. Thinking a twenty-one-year-old woman needs to borrow a cell phone when she goes out at seven — that seems over-cautious if, as Miss Rogers said, it was intended as a safety measure. Good point, sir.”

Damn, I thought. That is a good point. I only wish I’d noticed it. It’s one thing for Ellen to make Kevin carry a cell phone after dark: he’s in middle school. But it was odd that Nancy didn’t want Maggie to go shopping without a cell phone. I can be awful slow about stuff like that. But Bolt’s never slow about anything.

“Pretty quick, Bolt,” I said, shaking my head in admiration.

He gasped. “You’re right, sir! Supposedly, Miss Warren was given her scavenger hunt challenge at seven. And the receipt indicates she made her purchase at seven twenty-seven. That is pretty quick shopping, since it takes at least twenty minutes to walk from Sushi Gardens to Dollar Delights. So Miss Warren could hardly have been combing store after store in search of a Donny Osmond lint brush.”

Did that mean they’d lied about the times? But why? My head was spinning so bad that it was a relief to reach Schuster Hall and stop the questions and revelations.

Pamela Andrews has a circular pink sign on her door, divided into wedges, with each wedge labeled IN CLASS, AT THE LIBRARY, SHOPPING TILL I DROP — like that. The wedge labeled AT HOME — JUST KNOCK had a big purple thumbtack stuck into it. So we knocked; she opened the door immediately. She’s a little on the plain side, more than a little on the plump side. She was nicely dressed in khaki pants, a high-necked black cashmere sweater, and a string of pearls that looked real.

“Are you the police?” she asked. “Dean Collard called me about Maggie, and he said you might come by. Do you want to sit down?”

We sat in the thinly cushioned swivel chairs that evidently went with two narrow desks made from lacquered boards riveted to the wall. Pamela offered us Tang and crackers, and I was glad to accept — by now, I was really missing lunch.

She didn’t have much to say about last night. Maggie left the room yesterday afternoon, Pamela said, and came back looking great after her hairstyling and manicure, carrying a camelhair coat, black heels, and some clothes in a garment bag. No, Pamela didn’t think the things were new — she didn’t see any tags, so they must’ve been borrowed. Maggie fussed over her makeup for half an hour before heading for Sushi Gardens. Pamela ate dinner in the cafeteria, then went to the library to work on a term paper.

“It’s due Thursday,” she said, “and I’m, like, way behind. I planned to work all night. But around nine o’clock, Fletcher — that’s Fletcher Cantrell the Third — stopped by and happened to see me. Anyhows, we got talking, and he’s like, ‘Vertigo is showing at this art theater,’ and I’m like, ‘I love that film,’ and he’s like, ‘Wanna go?’ and I’m like, ‘Why not?’ And afterwards we stopped by his fraternity’s Hell Night party. Some guys were miffed with Fletcher for showing up late. He was the entertainment chair, or something, and he was supposed to bring some videos or something but I guess he got distracted cause we were having such a nice time.” She smoothed back her hair, sighing happily. “Anyhows, it was, like, two o’clock before I got back to the room. Maggie wasn’t here, so I figured she was staying at the Pi Alpha house. I didn’t check my messages until I got up for church this morning. When I found out Maggie never showed at Pi Alpha last night, I, like, freaked. Then Dean Collard called, and I, like, really freaked.”

She sniffled; Bolt handed her a tissue. “Poor Maggie,” she said. “I always tried to be there for her, but I guess I wasn’t really. The dean said she was blindfolded. She must’ve thought she couldn’t go through with it if she could look down and see the falls.”

Go through with it? “You think she committed suicide?” I asked.

Pamela blinked at me. “Well, obviously, Officer. She must have jumped. Dean Collard said something about an accident, but Maggie wouldn’t walk across those stepping-stones just for fun. What do you think she was — stupid?”

“I wouldn’t say stupid,” I said, blushing. “You wouldn’t have to be stupid to — never mind. Any other reasons for thinking she might have wanted to kill herself?”

She tilted her head to the side, considering. “Sort of. She worried about money a lot. I mean, a lot. She’d paid her first year’s tuition herself, but this year she had to let her parents pay, and she was all stressed out about tuition for next year.”

“Her parents weren’t willing to help?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re willing,” Pamela said. “Her mother cashed in half her retirement fund to cover tuition this year. But they’re also putting her older brother through law school, and they just spent a bundle on her older sister’s wedding, and her little sister has orthodontist bills. Maggie hated being a burden to them — that’s the way she put it. So I guess she decided she’d relieve them of the burden by... by... you know.”

She blew her nose, and I sneaked more crackers. “Did she talk about these problems a lot?” I asked, swallowing hard and reaching for the Tang.

“She used to.” Pamela accepted a fresh tissue. “And I tried to, like, sympathize. But my parents have real jobs — I just don’t have those problems, y’know? I don’t even have to work part time. Maggie worked at Burger Bonanza, but minimum wage doesn’t make much of a dent in tuition. And she was working so many hours her grades went down, and she was worried she’d lose this tiny merit scholarship she had. The whole thing was making her real tense. Then she started acting, like, irrationally.”

“In what way?” I asked.

Her face shifted from sorrowful to sour. “She pledged Pi Alpha. That made no sense. Last year, we got lots of invitations to rush parties, and we just, like, laughed them off. We both thought sororities were so dumb; you waste so much time and money, and most of the girls are so stuck up. And then this year, when Maggie has absolutely no time or money to spare, she’s all of a sudden like, ‘Maybe I’ll pledge Pi Alpha.’ And I’m like, ‘Why?’ But I wanted to support her, so I went to the rush party with her.”

“But you decided not to pledge?”

She pursed her lips. “I didn’t get a bid. See what I mean, about the girls being stuck up? They only take really skinny girls, girls who look so... so just so, y’know?”

“Well, not all of them,” I said, remembering. “When we were at the Pi Alpha house, we saw this Billie or Jillie or—”

“Willie Fenz,” Pamela said. “Well, yeah. But she’s a computer genius. She maintains the college’s Web site single-handedly, and she’s got, like, a four-point-two-million GPA. Everybody figures the Pi Alphas let her in so they’d never have to worry about keeping their own grades up. All fraternities and sororities have to maintain a group GPA of at least 2.5. With Willie pushing their average up, the Pi Alphas are set.”

Maybe, but Dean Collard had said all the Pi Alphas were honor students anyway. “And all the other members are very attractive?” I asked.

“Flat-out gorgeous. But they’re not from good families or anything — just regular families, all of them. Anyhows, when they turned me down, I thought Maggie would refuse her bid. I mean, we were best friends, almost. You’d think she’d be loyal. But no. And after she pledged, she stopped really talking to me. It was just like, Pi Alpha this, and Pi Alpha that — no real conversation. I wasn’t the only person she shut out, either.”

“Do you mean Fletcher Cantrell?” Bolt asked. “The young man you met at the library? The young ladies at Pi Alpha called him Miss Warren’s ex-boyfriend. At what point did he cease to be her boyfriend and become her ex-boyfriend?”

“At the point when she pledged Pi Alpha.” She sighed. “He’s the nicest guy, from a great family. His father’s company takes up three whole floors in the Bradstone Center downtown. And they’d dated so long — a whole year, almost. He even e-mailed her over the summer. At first, they were real close this year. Then, right after pledging, Maggie tells Fletcher she wants to just be friends. You know what that means — just be friends.”

I knew exactly what it means. It means you’re being dumped. I cringed, remembering high school, remembering college, remembering all the girls who’d told me they wanted to just be friends. Thank goodness I finally met Ellen; thank goodness she was willing to marry me and didn’t care about being friends.

I glanced at my notes. It looked like Maggie had been under lots of pressure, had cut off some friends — did that add up to suicide? Maybe. The blindfold could fit with suicide, too — not that it takes all that much courage to look down at a ten-foot jump if you’re hell bent on killing yourself anyway. But if Maggie had a fear of heights...

The door flew open, and a young guy in jeans and a Culbert basketball jacket rushed in. “Pam!” he cried. “Is it true? Seth Baker said Maggie — but it can’t be true!”

In a second, Pamela bounced up from her perch on the edge of her bed, wrapped her arms around the guy’s neck, and collapsed on his shoulder. “Oh, Fletcher!” she sobbed. “I’m sorry, but it’s true!” Still clinging to him, she pointed at us. “These are policemen — Officer Johnson and somebody else. I told them how upset Maggie’s been this year, and that must be why she went to the falls and decided to jump and—”

“Decided to jump?” He disentangled himself from her arms and took three steps back. “No way, Pam, no way! Maggie wouldn’t do that!”

“I know it’s horrible to think she felt so hopeless,” she said, holding out her arms, walking toward him again. “You must feel like you let her down; so do I. But we can help each other through this. We can, like, comfort each other. We can—”

“The hell with that.” He looked at her for a moment, grimaced, turned to face us. “Look, I never let Maggie down. And if Pam says Maggie committed suicide — no way!”

“That’s just one theory,” I said soothingly. “You’re Fletcher Cantrell?”

He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, hunched his shoulders forward, and stared at the floor. “Right. How’d you know?”

“Your name’s come up a few times. I put two and two together.” I’d done some real detective work, all right — it was hard not to look smug. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, son, you’ve had a nasty shock. Sit down. You can have my chair.”

“And you need a drink,” Pamela said eagerly. “I’ll make Tang.”

“I don’t wanna sit down. And I don’t want Tang.” He paced four steps, reached the wall, had to turn around and pace in the opposite direction. “I gotta keep my head clear. Seth said it’s all over campus that Maggie was pushed over Petite Falls. He said she’d been blindfolded with her pledge scarf, and her hands were tied, and—”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said. “Her hands weren’t tied. And we don’t know if she was pushed.” Oops, I thought — shouldn’t have said that much, not yet.

“Then she was blindfolded with her pledge scarf,” he said. “That settles it. It was those girls, those Pi Alpha bitches.”

“Fletcher!” Pamela covered her ears. “Don’t say the b-word!”

“That’s what they are,” he said. “Ever since Maggie got messed up with them, she hasn’t been the same. They must’ve brainwashed her, or drugged her, or something. And now they killed her. It was some sick initiation ritual, don’t you think so, Officer?”

“That’s another theory,” I admitted. “But we don’t know yet if—”

“Well, I know,” he insisted. “Everybody on campus knows there’s something wrong with the Pi Alphas. They don’t have more than a few parties a year, they never serve booze, and half the time they don’t even send a representative to Greek Council meetings. You saying that’s not weird? And none of them have steady boyfriends. Everybody says they’ve got this sick three date rule: You date a guy three times, and you gotta dump him, or you’re out of Pi Alpha. And that’s not weird?”

It did sound weird, if it was true. “Is that what Miss Warren told you?” I asked.

“That’s not what she said.” Angrily, he took a cracker from the box Pam held out. “She just said we should cool things down. Well, fine. To tell the truth, I’d been thinking that myself. I mean, I liked Maggie — she was real pretty, a real good time. Everybody liked her. But she’d been getting serious, even talking about a ring, and I wasn’t ready for that. So I was just waiting for the right time to let her down easy. Then she says she wants to break it off. In some ways, I was relieved, but I was worried about her, afraid it was because these Pi Alpha freaks had got their hooks into her.”

Bolt looked up from his notes. “You say no Pi Alphas have steady boyfriends. Do you suspect that — well, that their sexual preferences lie outside the mainstream?”

Fletcher stared. “Hell, no. No. Maggie wouldn’t have had anything to do with them if they were like that. But something’s wrong with them, and they drew Maggie in. I don’t know how — money, maybe. She was worried about that, and the Pi Alphas have a way with it. They buy stocks, and they’ve got a real strong alumni network. They’re always getting great jobs. Maybe they promised to make her rich, but first they made her go through this initiation, and they sat there and partied and watched her die.”

The phone rang, and Pamela ran to answer it. “Hello?” she said. “Oh. Hi, Bianca. Thanks. Horrible, but I’m coping. Fletcher’s helping me — thank God he’s so strong. A memorial service? Tomorrow at seven? Yes, I’ll say a few words. I’ll write a poem.”

A memorial service. I jotted down the time. You can learn lots by watching how people react at memorial services. As soon as Bolt and I were in private, I called the station. The coroner still had tests to do, she said; she’d have her report in the morning. Frankly, I was just as glad she didn’t have anything for us yet.

“We’ve put in enough hours for a Sunday, Bolt,” I said. “Let’s go home and eat.”

Not that there was much to eat at home. Ellen and Kevin were still all stony and surly about the Sunday school mess, and Ellen was too mad at both of us to make a real dinner. We sat down to a silent meal of warmed-up tuna casserole and garlic bread made from stale hamburger buns. Then Kevin stomped upstairs and pretended to do homework while I pretended not to know he was really fooling around on his computer. Ellen went to bed early, so I watched a Sopranos rerun and had a hard time working up sympathy for Tony. I mean, sure his family doesn’t appreciate him, but that can happen even if you don’t mess around with other women and don’t get guys whacked. And at least, no matter what he’s done, Carmela always has a nice dinner waiting for him.

Things didn’t get better in the morning. “Not exactly a rave review,” Ellen observed, tossing the newspaper and a box of Pop-Tarts at me.

I glanced at the front page. A photo of Maggie — her high school graduation picture, probably — and a headline: CULBERT STUDENT FALLS VICTIM TO RANDOM STREET CRIME. The article said Maggie Warren, an honors student at Culbert, had drowned in Slushy River, the apparent victim of a deviant who picked her off the streets at random and assaulted her. A guy from the mayor’s office and the public safety commissioner were quoted, saying how shocked they were. The mayor’s guy hinted maybe the solution was cracking down on the homeless. And an editorial — Ellen had plastered it with a purple sticky-note, to make sure I didn’t miss it — said the police should clean up the streets and protect innocents from random street crimes.

I stuck my untoasted Pop-Tart in my pocket and drove to the station. Bolt, already at his desk, was peering at stuff from Maggie’s purse and pockets.

The coroner, hovering nearby, tossed me a manila folder. “She wasn’t raped,” she said, “despite the paper’s oh-so-delicate insinuations about ‘assault.’ No signs of struggle or recent sexual activity. Not a virgin, but if she was the victim of a ‘random street crime,’ the crime was not rape.”

“That’s a start,” I said, biting off a corner of my Pop-Tart. “Anything else?”

“Not yet. Her coat was dry-cleaned recently but has several hairs on it, some definitely Maggie’s, some definitely not. Find us a suspect, we’ll see if the definitely-nots match up. As to time of death — if she ate dinner at six, she died between eight and ten.”

“Any signs of drugs?” I asked. “Or drinking?”

“Drugs, no,” she said decisively. “Drinking, yes. One or two glasses of red wine, right before she died, most still in her stomach, not her bloodstream. So I guess she shared a toast or two with this deviant who forced her into his car.”

“Let’s say she drank the wine at a sorority party right at the falls,” I said, remembering the broken bottle of Merlot. “Are the facts consistent with that theory?”

“With that theory and a dozen others.” She yawned. “Suicide, for example. She’s feeling blue, she heads for the falls with a bottle for company, she slugs down some wine, throws the bottle over the falls, decides to follow the bottle. Or she takes her bottle to the park for a private party before the initiation. The wine makes her so giddy she traipses across the stepping-stones, blindfolding herself to add to the fun—”

“The wine wouldn’t have had time to make her giddy yet,” Bolt objected. “Now, were the bruises on her forehead definitely caused by the rocks below Petite Falls?”

“Not definitely,” she said. “Cripes, Bolt — you’ve been at this long enough to know these things don’t tend to be definite. Fact is, there was more bruising than I’d expect. Maybe someone smashed her head against something blunt, knocked her out, then finished things off by putting her in the river. Then again, maybe not.”

“Thanks for narrowing down the possibilities,” I said, irritated. Random street crime, some other kind of homicide, initiation, suicide, accident — I still had to consider them all. As the coroner strode back to her lab, I shuffled moodily through the folder.

“A stimulating case,” Bolt said, blinking happily. “I imagine it poses a challenge even to your powers of deduction — not that I doubt you’ll solve it in record time, sir. As for me, I’ve been looking through Miss Warren’s things, gleaning what poor shreds of evidence I can. Her checkbook shows a balance of three dollars and eighty-seven cents. I called the bank, and a helpful clerk remarked that Miss Warren stopped by Saturday morning to open a savings account with an initial deposit of five dollars, the minimum amount the bank accepts. Rather an optimistic move, wouldn’t you say, sir, considering her circumstances?”

Damned optimistic. It pretty much knocked the hell out of the suicide theory. She had dressed carefully and fussed over her makeup — who’d bother with that on her way to a watery grave? “And the clothes, the makeup,” I said. “Those don’t fit, either.”

Bolt looked lost, then nodded. “Shrewd observation. Then there’s her calendar — she has three appointments marked for the next two weeks with someone named John. You see? For this Thursday — ‘John, Elite Lounge, 8 P.M.’ And for next Saturday — ‘John, Fifth Street Grill, 10 P.M.’ And for the following Wednesday — ‘John, airport, 6:45 P.M.’ ”

So Maggie had a new boyfriend. Maybe that’s why she broke up with Fletcher. Maybe John could help us decide if the suicide theory made sense. Naturally, he had to have a common first name, but at a college as small as Culbert, we’d track him down.

“And there’s this.” Bolt held out Maggie’s address book. “Under L — for lawyer, I assume — she has Phillip Easton’s number. Why would a college student carry around the number for a high-powered criminal attorney?”

“I’ll call his office and see,” I said.

The secretary who took the call checked the Rolodex, checked computer files, checked with other secretaries, found no mention of Maggie Warren, no one who’d heard of her before reading this morning’s newspaper.

“Dead end,” I said to Bolt. “Anything else?”

Frowning, he pointed to Maggie’s silver-banded watch. “I am bemused about why the watch was in her purse. It matches her outfit — the silvery top and sweater, the silver ankle straps, the silver necklace and earrings. Why wasn’t she wearing it?”

Well, that goes to show you. Even a smart guy like Bolt can miss obvious things. This was a cheap watch, not waterproof. Naturally, if Maggie was crossing the stepping-stones for an initiation, or just for fun, she’d take her watch off. She wouldn’t worry about drowning — kids always feel immortal — but she’d worry about landing in the water and ruining her watch. This time, I was a step ahead of Bolt.

“It’s easy to miss a step,” I said, worried he’d feel bad about messing up. “Anyone can make a slip.” Eventually, he’d get over feeling dumb — I’ve done it often enough — but how could I assure him of that? “Time,” I said. “That’s real important. Things can be all smashed up, but... oh, damn.” How could I find the perfect word to say that wounded pride gradually gets better. That it, well... what? “Heals,” I said, realizing that was the word. “That’s what you should focus on — heals. Know what I mean?”

“I do!” Bolt leapt up. “Heels! Her black high heels! As you say, it’s easy to miss a step, anyone can make a slip — especially if one is wearing high heels while crossing slimy stepping-stones! If she had the presence of mind to remove her watch because she feared tumbling into the water, why did she lack the presence of mind to remove the shoes that made tumbling far likelier? And, as you say, things can get all smashed up, particularly inexpensive watches that might smash against the rocks, fixing the time of death too precisely to be convenient for the perpetrator. I concur, Lieutenant. The murderer removed her watch to obscure the time of death, but forgot to remove her shoes to support the theory she crossed the stepping-stones voluntarily. Thank goodness for those ankle straps — without them, her shoes might have been dislodged by the current, and we might still be unsure this was indeed a homicide.”

Indeed a homicide. I guess he’d narrowed the possibilities down after all. Or maybe I had. Before I could figure out who’d done the narrowing, the phone rang.

It was Phillip Easton. “My secretary told me you phoned,” he said. “Maggie Warren called recently, asking if she could do an internship in my office. I said no — I’m a busy man, Lieutenant, with no time to supervise interns. And, sadly, no time to chat with you. But that’s why she had my number in her address book. Good luck. I hope you can rid our streets of these perverts who make random attacks on young girls.”

He hung up. “That was Easton,” I told Bolt. “He says Maggie wanted to do an internship in his office.” I shook my head. This guy was a successful lawyer; you’d think he’d be smooth. But he’d sounded abrupt, almost jittery. Charisma? No way. No good at making connections with people, either. “Chemistry?” I said out loud. “I don’t think so.”

“I don’t think so, either,” Bolt said. “Why would a chemistry major such as Maggie seek an internship in a law office? He’s hiding something. Succinctly put, sir.”

I wasn’t sure of what it was I’d put so succinctly — or of what succinctly means, if you want the truth — but the phone rang again before I had to figure out what to say next. This call was from the owner of a drugstore near Sushi Gardens. He’d seen Maggie’s picture in the paper and thought we should know that shortly after seven on Saturday, she’d stopped by his store with four other young women, all nicely dressed, all carrying long-stemmed blue carnations. They’d all bought copies of the Atlantic, then they hugged each other and took off on foot in different directions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sold so many copies of the Atlantic in one night. Well, that confirmed what the dean said about Pi Alpha girls being exceptional — not many college kids would plan on curling up with such a heavy-duty magazine on a Saturday night.

Before I could comment on that, we got yet another call, from a city councilman holding an emergency hearing on random street crime. Be at City Hall in ten minutes, he said. Hastily, I swept the things from Maggie’s purse and pocket into a manila envelope, intending to drop it off at the evidence lockup on our way out; but a deputy chief collared us in the hall, ranting about how we had to work together to wipe out random street crime, and I forgot to stop at the lockup. Oh, well — it isn’t procedure to take evidence out of the station, but chances were nobody would notice.

As it turned out, I was glad I’d taken the envelope. It kept Bolt occupied during the hearing, which dragged on all day, with lots of speeches from judges and state representatives, but no one ever got around to asking us to report. Fortunately, the councilman had a hefty budget for snacks; aides kept bringing around imported spring water and tidbit-crowded trays, so I nibbled steadily, never having to resort to the Cheez Whiz and anchovy on Wonder bread sandwich Ellen had hurled into my brown bag that morning. As for Bolt, he didn’t eat; just kept pawing through the evidence, squinting and frowning, and knowing him, probably thinking.

“You’re missing something, Bolt,” I whispered — it’s always a mistake to pass up free food. But he just kept frowning, holding the flashlight from Maggie’s coat pocket in one hand, her trinket-laden key ring in the other. I bit into a tiny tortilla roll, then sampled a pastry puff. Both were stuffed with cream cheese mixed with vegetables that were too minced-up to be recognizable; both tasted pretty much the same. “Duplication,” I said, disappointed.

“I realize that, sir,” he said, nodding soberly. “How do you explain it?”

Well, hell. How inventive can you expect civil servant cooks to be? And when snacks are free, why be picky? “It’s a gift,” I said reproachfully. “Why reject a gift?”

“A rejected gift?” His eyes widened. “I see what you mean. And, as you ask, who would reject such a gift, and why? You’ve given me something to think about, sir.”

I didn’t want him to think; I wanted him to eat. But he just kept staring at evidence. I nibbled some more, dozed, woke up, glanced at my watch. Cripes — six forty-five.

I elbowed Bolt. “Time for the memorial service,” I said. “Let’s sneak out.”

He slid the evidence back in the envelope, I took a final swig of water, and we headed for my car. Before we reached it, a tousle-haired TV reporter rushed up, camera crew scampering behind him, and demanded to know what the police intended to do about random street crime. No comment, I said, and drove to the Pi Alpha house. Sure enough, on the lawn stood another TV reporter — slick haired this time — asking Dean Collard about the rising tide of random street crime; but the dean insisted that Maggie died in an accident caused by the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance, that crime was a thing unknown to this city, that parents could feel safe about sending children here to attend Culbert College, which combines a solid liberal arts curriculum with outstanding pre-professional majors. Impatient, the reporter glanced away, spotted me, and charged. Hastily, I hustled Bolt out of camera range, past the potted geraniums, into the house.

“The random street crime theory is spreading,” I remarked. Well, that theory did fit most of the facts. “There’s lots of support for it,” I admitted.

“Yes, lots of support,” Bolt agreed, polishing his glasses on his tie. “From some high places — the newspaper, the mayor’s office, the public safety commissioner, a deputy police chief, city council, judges, state representatives, television reporters. Odd, isn’t it, to see how many powerful men are rushing to lend support to this particular theory?”

Why was it odd for pubic-spirited guys to care about public safety? “It’s natural for some men to care,” I said, “about whether young women can walk the streets safely.”

Bolt gasped. “Natural for some men to care,” he repeated, “about whether young — good gracious, sir! Do you really think so?”

Sure, I thought so. But I had more pressing matters on my mind: I’d downed a lot of spring water. I lowered my voice. “I’ve got to find the john,” I said.

Bolt nodded sharply. “Oh yes, sir,” he said, not even bothering to speak softly. “By all means, you must find the john. That is crucial — I know that.”

Jeez, how did he know that? Does he read minds too? And did he have to keep everyone in the room posted about my physical condition? “Communication is important, Bolt,” I said, softly, “but some things are delicate. You can’t just broadcast them. Sometimes you have to be subtler, more sophisticated. Understand?”

He knit his brow. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Well, I know I’m no good at expressing things — lots of people have trouble understanding me sometimes. “Sometimes, it takes a genius,” I said, slapping him on the back in apology. With that, I left him and wandered the hallways until I bumped into a door marked “Gentleman Callers.” Essential business completed, feeling far more equal to the task of solving murders, I made my way back to the front hall and saw Bolt locked in conversation with heavyset, frizzy-haired Willie Fenz. She was wearing the same baggy jeans she’d worn yesterday, but in deference to the occasion, she’d put on a black T-shirt, marked by a helmeted profile and the words “Sympathy for the Darth.” And she was crying. Bolt said something, and she shook her head; he said something else, and she hesitated, then nodded; he said another thing, and she broke into sobs. They spoke in hurried whispers for a few moments, and then he turned away, saw me, and sighed.

“Just as you said, sir,” he said sadly. “Sometimes, you can’t just broadcast things — and sometimes, it does take a genius. Of course, the ultimate question remains. Or have you deduced the answer to that too?”

I shrugged — when you don’t know what the hell is going on, shrugging is safest — and pretended to examine the floral arrangements crowding the hallway. Every fraternity and sorority on campus had sent flowers, it seemed. While I was admiring a vase of roses from the Jewish sorority, Nu Nu Nu, a little commotion broke out at the front door.

Bianca Flanders and Nancy Rogers stood on either side of the door, shaking hands and accepting condolences. But then Fletcher Cantrell III, Maggie’s ex-boyfriend, walked in with Maggie’s roommate, Pamela Andrews, clinging to his arm. When Bianca held out a hand to Fletcher, he snarled and backed away.

“This is garbage,” I heard him say to Pamela. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But I need you.” Pamela tightened her grip. “This is so, like, emotional for me.”

“We’re all grieving, Fletcher,” Nancy said. “I think it would help you if—”

She took a step toward him, but he shoved her away. “Back off, bitch,” he said.

Pamela gasped, reminded Fletcher not to use the b-word, and tugged him into the lounge where Bolt and Bianca and Nancy and I had all sat so stiffly yesterday. It looked different now. Curtains were drawn, couches had been moved out to make way for rows of folding chairs, and the bowl of blue M&M’s was gone, replaced by a dark blue candle in a silver candlestick. A huge photograph of Maggie hung over the fireplace, just below a blue satin banner printed with Greek words. Two girls in black, one strumming on a guitar and the other playing a flute, produced an appropriately mournful duet. As more people crowded into the lounge, I nudged Bolt toward the back row, and we waited until the music stopped and Bianca Flanders stepped up to the blue-draped podium.

“We are here,” she said, “to remember Maggie, taken from us by an act of random street crime. Her parents are making arrangements to take her home, but they’re with us in spirit. Now, I ask all members and alumni of Pi Alpha Kappa to rise for our oath.”

Almost all the women in the room stood up — college-aged women, middle-aged women, a few considerably older women, every one of them strikingly attractive and very well dressed. Solemnly, they recited the oath in unison:

“Pi Alpha Kappa — we pledge ourselves to you.

“To Pistay — Loyalty: Our loyalty to our sisters is tested, firm, unshakable;

“To Arete — Excellence: We loyally help each other achieve excellence;

“To Koinonia — Community: Excellence forms the basis of our community.”

Without another word, they sat down. I gotta tell you, I had a lump in my throat.

Next, the guitarist and the flutist led us in “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” It’s a sorry reflection on the state of contemporary music, Mother, that when today’s college kids need songs gloomy enough for memorial services, they have to reach clear back to the sixties. Bianca returned to the podium.

“We don’t have a formal service planned,” she said. “Instead, I’d like to invite people who cared about Maggie to speak. Nancy, would you go first?”

The vice president shared her thoughts about Maggie’s niceness and random street crime’s nastiness. Several other Pi Alpha members followed, all sticking to the same two themes. The mayor’s assistant who’d been quoted in the newspaper spoke too, also bemoaning random street crime. Then Maggie’s roommate stood up.

“When Bianca said there wouldn’t be a real service,” Pamela said when she got to the podium, “I was like, ‘Ohmygod! Why not?’ I mean, even though Maggie wasn’t, like, religious, it’s only, like, right, since she’s, like, dead. So I wish I’d written a prayer. But I wrote a poem. And I didn’t want to make it real long or drawn out. So I wrote a haiku:

“Dark, dismal despair,

“Blindly, hopelessly leaping—

“Pain ends with sad splash.”

It almost took my breath away, it was that good. Pamela sat down again, linking arms with Fletcher Cantrell III; he stared fixedly at the floor.

I nudged Bolt. “Quite some couple,” I said. You know I’m not the judgmental type, Mother, but it did seem wrong for Maggie’s roommate to be playing up to Maggie’s ex-boyfriend so soon. But Pamela would naturally be attracted to a big-man-on-campus type. “He’s the entertainment chair for his fraternity,” I said. “We can’t forget that.”

Bolt gasped. “Indeed not, sir,” he said. “A brilliant observation!”

Yeah, I am good at figuring out what attracts folks to each other. Meanwhile, Dean Collard had scrambled to the podium and launched into a speech about how sad it was that giddy, youthful exuberance had robbed Maggie of the opportunity to benefit further from the educational and extracurricular opportunities at Culbert College. Fifteen minutes into his list of clubs and intramural sports, even the sincerest-looking mourners were sneaking glimpses at their watches. Finally, Dean Collard glanced in my direction.

“Here’s someone who should speak,” he said. “Some people have said the police can’t keep the streets safe for Culbert students — and other residents of our fair city, of course. But our streets are safe; Officer Johnson can attest to that. Officer Johnson?”

You know how I hate public speaking, Mother, how sweaty and incoherent it makes me — even sweatier and more incoherent than usual, I mean. But I didn’t have much choice. Glancing hopelessly at Bolt, I shuffled to the podium.

“We cops keep the streets pretty safe,” I said, faltering. “This talk about random crime — well, I don’t know.” Damn, I thought. I should be talking about Maggie, not doing a police promo. I should say I realized how senseless her death was — but how? “I never knew Maggie,” I said, “but I got vivid images of her from talking to folks. I can see her getting all dressed up and fussing over her makeup, just to get ready for an evening with her sorority sisters. I see her and the other pledges buying the Atlantic, carrying blue carnations, setting off on their scavenger hunt. And it — well, it all seems wrong. I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. And I can see — hell. What can I see?”

Fresh out of images, I glanced around for inspiration and spotted the Pi Alpha banner. “There’s your slogan,” I said. “I know those three words mean a lot to you.” Unfortunately, they didn’t mean a lot to me. How could they? They were Greek. I’d found the oath so moving I’d felt sure I’d remember all three words; but I had to strain for even one. “Loyalty,” I said, floundering. “That’s the first word in your slogan. While people were speaking, that word that kept coming back to me. Loyalty. And I thought it was, well, poignant, and — hell.” I gave up. It was humiliating, and there was only one way out. “Bolt,” I said, “take over. Say what needs to be said.”

Startled, he scurried to the podium, evidence envelope tucked under his arm. “You’re sure you want me to take over?” he whispered. “To say what needs to be said?”

“Hell, yes,” I whispered back. “I hate public speaking. You know that.”

“Well, yes, sir, I do,” he said, lowering his voice still further. “But do you think it’s best to say what needs to be said now, in public? Not later, in private?”

What sense would that make, to give a memorial speech in private? “It has to be now, Bolt,” I insisted. “You’ll know just how to put it, you always do.”

He gulped, pushing his glasses back so they’d sit more firmly on his nose. “Very well, sir,” he said. “But stay by my side.” He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, then looked up. “Dean Collard,” he said, “President Flanders, ladies and gentlemen. It has fallen to my lot to finish what Lieutenant Johnson so courageously began. I can do no better than to echo the last note he sounded. Loyalty. This room is filled with people who should be loyal to Maggie Warren — her sorority sisters, her dean, her former boyfriend, her roommate. But what, I ask you, does loyalty truly mean?”

He looked out, the intensity of his gaze seeming to melt the thick lenses of his glasses. Just about everybody wilted — or, at least, looked away, or looked down.

“Loyalty,” Bolt continued, “demands that everybody who cared about Maggie should be eager to see the truth about her death established, to see anyone responsible brought to justice. And many people in this room have offered theories about Maggie’s death. One of those theories, I believe, is sincere but mistaken. The rest? Not only mistaken, but also insincere. Many people in this room know more of the truth about Maggie’s death than they will admit. And one person in this room knows the full truth about how Maggie died, and about who killed her.”

He paused. I don’t have to tell you it was a dramatic pause.

“We know quite a bit,” he continued, “about the night Maggie died. And most of it, as the lieutenant said, does not make sense. She planned, supposedly, to dine with her sorority sisters, go on a scavenger hunt that might require hours of walking, then go to a party where no men were allowed. Does it make sense, then, that she’d borrow a seductive outfit, put on high heels, and lavish care on her makeup? As the lieutenant says, that seems wrong. We must assume, therefore, that she did not plan to spend the entire evening with her sorority sisters. She planned to meet a man.”

She did? Damn — I never would’ve guessed. But what man had she planned to meet? I remembered her appointment calendar, the dates she’d set for the next weeks. I tugged on Bolt’s sleeve. “John,” I whispered. “Don’t forget John.”

He nodded. “The other image the lieutenant described was of Maggie and her pledge sisters carrying blue carnations and buying copies of the Atlantic. What sense does that make? None, if they were going on a scavenger hunt and then to a women-only party. The only explanation that does make sense is that they were all going to meet men — men they had not met before. That’s why they carried the carnations and magazines — so they and their designated men could recognize each other.”

“That’s enough,” the guy from the mayor’s office said, pointing furiously. “Maggie Warren was a victim of random street crime — everybody agrees about that.”

“Many people do agree about that,” Bolt admitted. “Many important people — many important men. The lieutenant and I first heard the random-crime theory put forth yesterday by Pi Alpha’s president. By morning, many important men were echoing that theory. Did Miss Flanders call them after our session yesterday, asking them to publicly support the random-crime theory? Did these men have a special reason for spreading that theory, and suppressing the truth? As Lieutenant Johnson drolly remarked to me, some men care about young women who walk the streets. Not that Maggie Warren was a streetwalker — she was a call girl, like the other members of Pi Alpha Kappa.”

Now Bianca Flanders stood up. “That’s slander,” she said icily. “Another word, and you’ll hear from our attorney.”

“Would that be Phillip Easton?” Bolt inquired. “Maggie had his phone number in her address book — do you give it to all your pledges, in case they’re picked up for prostitution? When we called Mr. Easton’s office, the secretaries could find no record of Maggie, but Mr. Easton called back minutes later with an obviously fabricated story, trying to explain things away. Is he a customer, as well as your attorney?”

Bianca barely flinched. “Now you’ve slandered Mr. Easton too. You’ll be lucky to keep your job, Sergeant Bolt.”

“However long I may keep it,” he said, “I can count on you to get my title right. Everybody else here calls me ‘Officer,’ but you and Miss Rogers always carefully noted policemen’s ranks — the lieutenant remarked on that. Did Mr. Easton teach you that point of etiquette, to prepare you for dealings with the police? If so, he coached you well. But I doubt he can make a slander charge stick. Pi Alpha takes only a few pledges each year — all attractive, all from middle-class families that find tuition a crushing burden. You rejected Maggie’s roommate, Pamela. She thinks you didn’t consider her attractive enough. Perhaps. Or perhaps you judged her too rich to be tempted by promises of quick cash, or too straightlaced to countenance your activities. A churchgoer who gasps when the ‘b-word’ is uttered doesn’t seem a strong candidate for prostitution. But Maggie, desperate to make money any way she could, had scheduled three meetings with ‘John’ — a discreet designation for the next three customers your sorority had lined up for her.”

Yikes, Bolt, I thought, that’s awful flimsy. And Dean Collard had said the Pi Alpha girls were really nice. I tugged on Bolt’s sleeve again. “Don’t forget their good reputation,” I warned. “Perfect behavior, charities, activities. That’s evidence too.”

“Evidence of a negative sort,” he agreed, “but damning. Your sorority takes such elaborate precautions to safeguard its reputation, it stands to reason you’re covering something up. Then there’s the list of activities we saw yesterday. Workshops in makeup and self-defense, in health precautions and investment strategies, all perfectly suited to young women who need to look their best and to know how to protect themselves, who face certain health hazards in hopes of benefiting financially. Maggie obviously hoped to reap such benefits: She opened a savings account the day she died because she expected to start earning that very night. The scavenger hunt was just a ruse to fool the dean; Maggie bought her Donny Osmond lint brush so quickly that you must have told her where to find it. Her actual quest was to find and satisfy her first customer. That is the true nature of your Hell Night initiation. That is how your pledges prove themselves.”

“Absurd!” Dean Collard protested, so pale his lips had faded to a beige blur. “I watch the sororities and fraternities so closely — how could they ever manage it?”

“Sometimes,” Bolt said grimly, “it takes a genius. As Lieutenant Johnson noted, communication is important, but some things are so delicate you can’t broadcast them — you have to be more sophisticated. That’s why Pi Alpha admitted Willie Fenz, the only member who doesn’t participate directly in its distinctive form of free enterprise. Instead, for a percentage of the others’ earnings, she manages a Web site so discreetly that neither the college nor the police detected it. This Web site offers visitors glimpses of scantily clad young women, their faces obscured by blue silk scarves. That’s how Pi Alpha screens customers and sets up assignations. Miss Fenz has admitted as much.”

So many people gasped that I expected the walls to cave in because of the sudden change in air pressure. People whipped their heads around, looking for Willie Fenz. But she’s a genius, not a dummy; she had taken off long ago. Then Pamela started crying.

“So that’s why Maggie killed herself,” she sobbed. “At the last moment, she couldn’t, like, go through with the ickiness. She went to the Falls, and she must have been, like, ‘Whoa! I can’t do this!’ So she blindfolded herself, and—”

“No,” Bolt cut in. “The blindfold and the scattered M&M’s were attempts to frame Pi Alpha by making Maggie’s murder look like an initiation gone wrong. But Pi Alpha’s pledges do not go to Petite Falls. They meet their customers, then come back here with the candies they collected during the week. Yesterday, we saw a bowl filled with eight hundred blue M&M’s, deposited by the other four pledges when they returned safely after their probationary trysts. Maggie, sadly, did not survive her first assignment.”

“I don’t believe it.” Dean Collard shook his head. “That any Culbert College sorority or fraternity could indulge in such behavior. Impossible!”

“Is it?” Bolt asked. “You said that in the past Culbert sororities and fraternities indulged in disgraceful practices. You hinted at one of them when you spoke of decadence and exploitation; you said some initiations involved women who weren’t exactly nice young women, who were willing enough. Just who were these not exactly nice young women, and what were they willing enough to do?”

“Oh good heavens!” Now, the dean blushed. “Well, it was before my time. But apparently, when some fraternity pledges hadn’t — well, if they were still, well, innocents — well, the senior members would find women willing to, well, initiate them.”

“And what senior member would be assigned the task of finding willing women to perform this initiation?” Bolt asked. “The entertainment chairman?”

I expected Fletcher to jump up and deny it. But it was Pamela who jumped. “Stop that!” she cried, draping an arm around Fletcher’s shoulders. He sat hunched in his chair, staring at the floor, as if trying to decipher a message woven into the rug. “Fletcher,” Pamela declared, “would never do that. He didn’t even want to go to his dumb old fraternity party. He spent most of Saturday night with me.”

“He did,” Bolt agreed. “And, charming as you are, it’s odd that on the night of a major party he’d seek you out at the library — the sign on your door told him where to find you — and take you to a movie. Perhaps he needed an alibi, as well as time to compose himself — and his story — before facing his fraternity brothers to explain why he’d failed to provide the promised entertainment.”

“That’s just, like, dumb!” she insisted. “Fletcher, tell him!”

At last, Fletcher looked up. Deliberately, he removed Pamela’s hand from his shoulder. “I’m not saying anything until I call my father’s lawyer. This guy doesn’t have proof. He just gets a kick out of slandering me in front of all these people.”

“I’m sure that upsets you,” Bolt said evenly. “I know you care deeply about what people think. When you spoke of your feelings for Maggie, it was important to you that everyone liked her. But then she dropped you. That hurt your pride, didn’t it?”

Fletcher shrugged. “No big deal. I never liked her all that much anyhow.”

“I think you did.” Slowly, Bolt opened the evidence envelope. “I think we have proof that, long after she broke up with you, you kept a gift she’d given you. We’ll come back to that. Miss Fenz said she screened replies to the Web site and never responded to mail from campus addresses. But your family lives in town; you must have an e-mail address at home. That’s why, when given the task of finding someone to initiate your less experienced pledges, you could make an appointment with one of the young women pictured on the Blue Elegance Web site. It’s no wonder you found her attractive. And it’s no wonder your pride was hurt more deeply than ever when you saw your former girlfriend standing at the designated meeting place, holding a copy of the Atlantic and a blue carnation. Were you infuriated, Mr. Cantrell?”

Fletcher just sat there rigidly, his mouth twitching between a grin and a snarl.

Bolt gazed at him, then nodded. “Probably not. It takes your fury a while to build, I see. And probably, at first, you just felt stunned. Maggie must have felt stunned too, but when you opened your car door, she got in. She trusted you, and she had a job to do. If her first customer was her old boyfriend, that made it easier. So you drove to Petite Falls, thinking it would be deserted at that time of night. You’d brought a bottle of Merlot — had you planned to ply the girl from Blue Elegance with wine, to get her to agree to initiate several bashful pledges? Did you try to dissuade her from continuing down the disgraceful path she’d chosen?”

Fletcher barely shook his head, barely opened his lips. “None of that happened.”

“I wish it hadn’t.” Sadly, Bolt reached into the envelope and pulled out the key chain. “This was in Maggie’s purse, loaded down with the sorts of trinkets many girls attach to key chains, a rabbit’s foot, a tiny ballet slipper, a plastic flashlight. And this was in her coat pocket.” He held up the gold-plated flashlight on the snap-apart chain. “Duplication — that’s what the lieutenant said when he saw Maggie had one flashlight on her key chain, another in her pocket. Why would she carry two flashlights?”

Pamela was still standing next to Fletcher loyally, her hand resting on his chair. Now, she stared at the gold-plated flashlight, stared at him, and took her hand away.

“That’s Maggie’s,” she said, her voice soft and, for once, too slow for incoherence. “Her parents gave it to her when she graduated from high school, and last year, on Fletcher’s birthday, she gave it to him because she couldn’t afford to buy a present. When she broke up with him, he said he’d always carry it with him as a symbol he still hoped she’d come back to him. She cried about it. Later, she bought a plastic flashlight, since she didn’t have her gold one any more.”

Bolt’s eyes were sad with understanding. “Maggie wouldn’t listen to you, would she, Mr. Cantrell? Disgusted, you tore the flashlight from your own key chain and hurled it at her. She put it in her pocket. Perhaps she said some taunting thing. Now, your fury erupted. You grabbed the back of her neck and struck her head against your dashboard. Perhaps you didn’t mean to kill her. But when you realized what you’d done—”

Once again, Fletcher Cantrell III’s fury erupted. Roaring, he leapt up, charging straight for Bolt. With a mighty yell, I snapped into a Jackie Chan stance, jumped in front of Bolt, tripped over the podium, fell down flat on top of it, and collided with Fletcher just as he surged forward, hands outstretched to grab Bolt’s throat. Fletcher toppled over on me, his head bouncing down beyond my feet, hitting the floor, knocking him out. By the time he came to, Bolt had him handcuffed and was reading him his rights, cradling his Miranda card in one hand and holding out aspirin in the other.

That’s pretty much it. After the coroner matched the mystery hairs on Maggie’s coat with hairs from Fletcher’s head, Fletcher, on the advice of his father’s lawyer, pleaded temporary insanity, admitting everything happened just the way Bolt laid it out. The Pi Alpha girls confessed too. After our tech guy finally found the Blue Elegance Web site, they didn’t have much choice. Bolt and I hauled them in on prostitution charges, but after the prosecutor and his staff questioned them — at the sorority house, and at a hotel suite he rented for the weekend because he wanted privacy for the interrogations — he decided he needed them for state’s evidence against Fletcher. So he let them off with a warning. I was surprised he needed all the girls as witnesses, but lots of people think it’s a good idea. The newspaper and the TV stations did stories about the plight of college girls forced into prostitution by the rising tide of tuition costs, and the mayor and the public safety commission made sympathetic statements. Don’t think those girls will go unpunished, though. Dean Collard suspended their party privileges for one whole semester.

So that’s why I took a firm stand with Kevin — and not just because I found out Blue Elegance had been sending weekly bulletins to old Miss Prichett. No, it’s because I think it’s time Kevin learned what loyalty really is, and what it really isn’t. I mean, sure he wants to protect his Little League buddies. But shouldn’t loyalty mean more than covering up for lies and bad behavior? Like Bolt pointed out, maybe those Pi Alpha girls thought they were being loyal to Maggie when they lied about the initiation, but really, weren’t they mostly being loyal to themselves? Sometimes, claiming to be loyal can be a pretty good way of hiding selfishness. And shouldn’t Kevin feel loyal to Miss Prichett too? I know she’s mean — I remember how she called me “faltering Walter” every time I messed up on a psalm — but she deserves credit for getting up early every Sunday, just to shove religion down the throats of ungrateful adolescents. So I told Kevin no Internet till he coughs up the truth. Ellen’s so proud of me that she’s dropping more hints about giving Kevin a sibling, but that’s another story. Anyhow, Kevin’s close to cracking. A few stern words from you might do the trick. If you provide them, you’ll have the gratitude of

Your loving son,

Walt

Dear Kevin,

If you want my support on this one, you’re out of luck. It’s a tough situation, but tell the truth and let your friend take his punishment. In the long run, he’ll be better off for not getting away with doing something wrong. Maybe he’ll thank you one day. Well, maybe not. Don’t worry about that. You’re growing up so fast — just make sure you feel good about the kind of adult you’re becoming. After all, before long you may have to set a good example for someone else who will also be very important to

Your loving

Grandmother