Dear Miss Demeanor

ELEVEN

The Book Depot grew dim as the day latened, but I did not turn on a light in the front room. The street crew had departed in a roar of dozers and dump trucks, and the ensuing tranquility was too lovely to be disrupted. I waltzed about with a feather duster, savoring the solitude as I sneezed my way through a week’s accumulation of dust. The teachers’ lounge seemed very distant; naggish thoughts of the dance were firmly dismissed.

I was in my office at the back, nose-deep in a ledger that appeared to have been depleted by an embezzler, but in reality was depressingly seW-depleted, when I heard someone knock on the door. Despite the “closed” sign, customers did occasionally insist on admittance. One would think they could read.

It was Evelyn, her cheeks flushed from the chill in the air and her eyes bright from, I supposed, the excitement of the parade. I let her in and invited her to the office for coffee.

“No thanks,” she said, “we’re going to have to hurry if we’re going to be on time for the game. Because of the Homecoming activities, it begins half an hour earlier than usual, and the bleachers are apt to be packed.”

“Is this some kind of cruel joke?”

She shook her head. I protested steadily as I turned off the office light and locked the door. I continued to protest as I was driven to my apartment to fetch a scarf, hat, and gloves; and I did not falter as I ate a hamburger, drank several gallons of coffee as a preventive measure against the cold night air, and actually paid money to a gate attendant to be admitted to Falcon Stadium, Home of the Fighting Falcons, No Alcoholic Beverages Permitted. At that point, my protests became not only redundant, but also irrelevant.

We joined Sherwood on the fifty-yard line. A red-and-gold plaid blanket awaited us, along with a thermos of coffee and a discreet flask of brandy. I had not attended a football game since high school, having managed to avoid them throughout college as a matter of principle. Scrunched between Evelyn and Sherwood, my feet already numbing, my nose beginning to drip, surrounded on four sides by screaming fans, I remembered why.

“Why did you do this to me?” I asked Evelyn. “I was having a perfectly nice time at the Book Depot. I planned to go home, read the newspaper over a Lean Cuisine and a drink, and prepare myself for the dance. My plans did not include freezing in the bleachers, spilling coffee in my lap, or watching a group of faceless hulks batter each other to pulp over an ovoid plaything.”

Evelyn laughed. “But it’s Homecoming, Claire. We must applaud the ladies of the court and cheer on the Falcons to victory. Where’s your school spirit?”

“In my living room, curled on the couch.”

“Try this,” Sherwood murmured, handing me a liberally spiked cup of coffee. “It’s my contribution to spirit. Enough of this and you’ll be on your feet with the optimates screeching for a touchdown.”

“I thought this was forbidden,” I said. I sipped at it anyway; the worst they could do was haul me away to jail, which was probably a good deal warmer and quieter.

“De minimis non curat J~ the law does not concern itself with trifles, such as a dollop of brandy.” He prepared cups for Evelyn and himself. “I heard an interesting tidbit from my fifth period hoi polloi, by the way. It seems that Immerson was reinstated at the fateful moment, and the Falcons now have a chance to broast, barbecue, and bake the Bantams.”

“That’s odd,” Evelyn said. “He surely didn’t produce a grade above a D on a pop quiz or turn in an assignment in his own handwriting. Word of that would have spread across the school more quickly than a social disease. Did Miss Don actually relent and agree to let him play?”

“All I heard was that our Mr. Immerman was in the office most of third period,” Sherwood said, “and Jerry was there during fourth period. His absence encouraged the drivers’ ed class to engage in a brief but successful game of strip poker in the backseat of the Buick; an anonymous young lady was rumored to have lost a capite ad calceni-from head to heel.” He waggled his eyebrows in a facetious leer, but I didn’t doubt the story for a second. “But there is our principal pro tempore a mere dozen rows away; you might ask her why she changed the policy. Personally, I would rather consult Medusa about the name of her hairdresser.”

I agreed with Sherwood, although I was curious. I finished my coffee and asked for directions to the concession stand. Once we had unwrapped the blanket, much as the Egyptians might have done to check on decomposition, I fought my way down the rows of metal benches and went to see if Jerry had confided the details to his beloved.

Paula Hart was in the back of the concrete shed, watching popcorn explode in a glass box. I inched my way through the crowd to a corner of the counter and beckoned to her. “I hear Immerman was reinstated,” I said.

She gave me a puzzled look. “Yes, I believe he was. Can I get you a box of popcorn or something to drink, Claire? We have a limited selection of candy bars, but they’re ancient and I wouldn’t recommend them to anyone over eighteen.”

“Did he convince Miss Dort to rescind the order, or did Jerry have a word with her?”

A frown that hinted of irritation flashed across her face, but she quickly converted it to a smile. “I have no idea. it’s really too loud and crazy in here for conversation, and I do have to watch some of the less mathematically inclined when they make change. Perhaps you might ask Miss Dort.”

“I’d love a box of popcorn,” I said, determined not to be dismissed despite the jostling crowd and my disinclination to eat anything prepared by adolescents. When she returned, I began to dig through my purse. “Now that Miss Dort is acting principal, what do you think she’ll do about Jerry’s graduate-school transcript?”

Paula’s hand tightened around the box until I could almost hear the popcorn groan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she managed to say, her lipstick beginning to crack.

“I’d ask him, but I suspect he’ll be occupied with this thing between the Falcons and the Bantams for the next two hours. Of course, it wasn’t clear what Mr. Weiss intended to do. He sounded grim at the last teachers’ meeting, however; you two must have been alarmed.” The last bit wasn’t exactly speculation. but it seemed tactful to pretend.

“The police haven’t mentioned the graduate-school transcripts. How did you find out about them?”

“The police have the same problem I had initially,” I said. “They saw them in the personnel file, but they didn’t assume there was anything significant about the coach being exceptionally well educated. One has to understand the workings of the education bureaucracy to see why all teachers shouldn’t be exceptionally well educated.”

Her Barbie doll face crumpled. Ignoring the startled looks from the students beside her, she snatched up a napkin and blotted her eyes. “It was awful, just awful. Weiss made it clear he could have Jerry fired at any time. He also stopped me in the corridor late one afternoon after a club meeting and suggested that he-he and I engage in-in-a-oh, it was dreadful!”

“Did you tell Jerry that Weiss wanted sexual favors in exchange for job security?” I continued, unmoved by her display.

“Jerry called me that evening, and I just broke down.” She sniffled bravely into the napkin. “He was furious, but I managed to calm him down and talk some sense into him. He wanted to go right over to Mr. Weiss’s house, pound on the door, and make a terrible scene. It would have cost him his job for sure. With that on his record, he wouldn’t have been able to coach anywhere.”

Or buy a cottage and reproduce, I amended to myself. I was about to ask more questions when the bleachers above us erupted in a roar. The band took up the strains of the Falcons’ fight song, competing with the opposing band’s blare. Paula gave me an apologetic look and scurried away to blink bravely, if somewhat damply, at the popcorn machine. I left the crushed box of cold popcorn on the counter, and went back to join Sherwood and Evelyn on the fifty-yard line.

The band marched onto the field and arranged itself in some mysterious way that must have had some significance to those higher in the tiers. The cheerleaders bounced about like irregular ping-pong balls, shaking their pompoms among other things and arousing the pep squad to frenzied squeals. The drill team formed two lines and shook their pompoms among other things. The scene reminded me of a primitive, sacrificial ceremony in which virgins would go to the grave intact. To the tune of “Fight Ye Falcons,” no less. The crowd loved it.

The Homecoming court convertibles appeared on the track that encircled the football field. The girls perched on the backseats, their white, clenched fingers digging into the upholstery as they smiled at the crowd. They were escorted from their thrones by as-yet-unsullied football players to be presented to the crowd and to accept bouquets and admiration. Followed by the kindergarten attendants, Cheryl Anne clutched the arm of her darling Thud, who clumsily put a plastic tiara on her head and handed her a bouquet of roses. It brought back memories, distant and blessedly mellowed with time, of faces arranged in the yearbook, all grim and determined to succeed. I looked particularly stem under a bouffant hairstyle that always left Caron and Inez weak from sustained laughter.

The presentation of the court, sniveling babes and all, was touching. The next two-and-a-half hours of bodies flinging themselves against each other were not, except in the obvious sense. Grunts and thumps, the sound of helmet against helmet, the incessant screams of the pep squad, the boisterous verbosity of the fans-it verged on something worse than Dante had ever envisioned for the lowest circles of the Inferno.

The thermos ran dry. The flask went the same way. My feet forsook me and my hands turned blue. My nose ran a marathon. I was kicked from behind and elbowed from both sides. A coke dribbled down my neck during a particularly exciting play.

The majority of the plays were incomprehensible, although I did my best to follow both the ball and the seesaw score. The home team took the lead, then lost it via a fumble. Thud snatched the ball from a Bantam and scampered all the way to the goal line, sending the cheerleaders into paroxysms of glee. The Bantams doggedly scored once again. Everyone in the bleachers, with one exception, rose and fell with pistonish precision.

The final quarter arrived, along with a couple of Falcon fumbles and Bantam triumphs, causing the scoreboard to tilt dangerously to the enemy side. Just as I neared a frostbite-induced coma, the referees called it a night. The cheerleaders burst into tears on each other’s shoulders, while the band played a version of the fight song that seemed more of a dirge. Cheryl Anne stalked down from the bleachers, paused to hiss at the forlorn Falcons, then led her cortege into the metaphorical sunset. Thud threw his helmet on the ground, having displayed enough foresight to remove his head from it first. The coaches shook hands and trudged across the field, their troops in straggly formation behind them.

“Shall we go?” I said, trying not to sound too heartened by the thought of a car heater and even a gymnasium.

Evelyn sighed. “It’s such a shame to lose the Homecoming game. The kids really care about this sort of thing.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Shall I carry the blanket? Where’s the nearest exit?”

Sherwood glanced at me, but offered no editorial. We followed the stream out of the stadium. The students punched each other on the shoulder and verbally rehashed the final plays of the game; their liberal use of profanity was more than mildly disturbing to someone who would be obliged to restrain them in the immediate future:

I tugged at Evelyn’s arm. “What precisely is my assignment at the dance?”

“You have floor duty. Emily always volunteered for it, swearing she enjoyed it, and no one ever argued with her for the privilege.” Her voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. “You’ll survive, probably.”

“Floor duty?” I said.

Sherwood patted me on the shoulder. “You are the ultimate in loco parentis, dear sleuth. All you must do is keep the rabble from dancing too closely together-school policy is three inches and not a whit closer-and the ones sitting down to keep their paws off each other.”

“And the band from singing obscenities,” Evelyn added. “The lyrics can get pretty raunchy if you don’t keep an eye on them.”

“Don’t let anyone drink anything that comes from a back pocket,” said Sherwood. “No smoking, snuff, or chewing tobacco. No vodka in the punchbowl. No fistfights. Don’t let the girls roll up their skirts or the boys unzip their jeans.”

“That’s all?” I laughed gaily. “And I’m going to do this all by myself, right? I won’t have a squadron of marines to help me out, or even an automatic weapon. I’ll just shake my finger at perpetrators, and they’ll back off from whatever felonious activity they’ve chosen.”

“Oh, you’ll have help.” Evelyn gave me a wry look. “I believe you’re assigned with Mr. Chippendale and Mr. Eugenia.”

“Wonderful,” I sighed. And I had alienated Peter, whose presence might have saved me from what threatened to be slightly worse than root-canal surgery done by a drunken dentist-in a bouncing jeep. Just when I needed a whiff of nitrous oxide.

Evelyn drove us to the faculty lot. We went to the gym, which was dripping with red-and-gold crepe paper, and glumly surveyed the battlefield. I presumed it would be strewn with bodies by midnight; all I could hope was that mine would not be included in the count.

Speakers the size of refrigerators were arranged in front of a low platform cluttered with beglittered guitars and an intricate formation of drums. The acned boys in the band huddled on one side, their eyes darting as if they anticipated attack or arrest. They had long, stringy hair and feral expressions. A droopy banner taped on the wall above them proclaimed them to be “Pout,” an ominously appropriate name. Evelyn and Sherwood wished me luck, then drifted away to their assigned posts elsewhere in the building, where they might not even be able to hear Pout’s best efforts to deafen us.

Mr. Chippendale came through the door, metal chairs under his arms. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Malloy, are you prepared for the dance?”

“Certainly. Mr. Chippendale. I’ve made a new will, consulted a neurologist about potential auditory nerve damage, and booked a private room at Happy Meadows.”

He gave me a startled look, then busied himself unfolding chairs along the wall. A grayish man with bifocals introduced himself as Erwin “Gene” Eugenia, Algebra and Trig, and took a stack of chairs to the opposite side of the vast room. Students drifted in to set up the refreshment table, all sober from the defeat at the hands (talons?) of the Starley City Bantams. I watched them carry in the punch bowl, reminding myself that I was assigned the formidable task of assuring their continued sobriety until the dance was done.

A short while later the gym began to swell with students. After a few false starts, Pout found its stride and broke into what was presumably their opening set. Mr. Chippendale took a post next to the stage, although I doubted he could isolate stray obscenities in the ululation that passed as lyrics. Mr. Eugenia stayed beside the punch bowl, leaving me to monitor the dancers for distance and the nondancers for discretion.

Once my ears grew accustomed to the volume, I realized I might survive. Some of the students from the journalism classes poke to me, or at least moved their mouths in what I interpreted as amiable discourse. I smiled politely, though blankly. No one asked me to dance, which was for the best since I had had no training in that particular mode of stylized warfare.

During a lull, I spotted Caron and Inez near the door. For the first time since the onslaught of puberty, my daughter looked timid and vulnerable; Inez appeared to be in the early stages of a seizure. After a beady look at a leather-clad hoodlum with an earring and fast hands, I joined them. “I didn’t see you two at the game.”

Caron regained some of her usual superciliousness. “You went to the football game, Mother? Whatever for?”

“I was coerced,” I admitted. “I sat with Mrs. West and Mr. Timmons in what I fear was the most vocal section of the bleachers. I suppose it was good practice for the decibel level in here.”

“Caron and I sold programs at the south gate,” Inez volunteered. “We turned in our money, then sat with Rhonda and some of the girls. Wasn’t the game just dreadful?”

“I thought so,” I said, suspecting our criteria were different. Pout roared into song once again; conversation was impossible. Caron grabbed Inez’s shoulder, and they hobbled away to find seats amidst the wallflowers.

Despite the lack of a victory, the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves. I was beginning to feel somewhat confident when Cheryl Anne swept through the door and stopped to survey the scene, her mouth a tight red rosebud and her hands clenched at her sides. Thud hovered behind her, clearly uncomfortable in her wake.

The dancers nearest the door halted in mid-gyration and backed off the floor to make a path that would have led straight to the throne, had there been one. I was mildly surprised no one had thought to bring a red carpet.

Cheryl Anne snapped her fingers over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, for God’s sake. I want to dance.”

Thud’s eyes were almost invisible under his lowered brow, but he lumbered around her to his designated spot. “Come on, then-dance, damn it,” he grunted. After a second of icy disdain, Cheryl Anne joined him and they disappeared into the mass of writhing bodies. I was not the only wallflower to let out my breath, Tupperwear-style.

At the end of the second set, the lead guitarist announced they were “gonna haf to break” for fifteen minutes so their “instruments could like cool off, you know.” I slipped out the door to assess whether I had brain damage, and promptly bumped into my Baker Street Irregulars.

“I saw Miss Parchester!” Caron said, her fingers digging into my arm. “She’s in the building.”

“When did you see her, and where is she?”

“We saw her go around a corner when we went to hide in the rest room,” Inez said.

“Hide in the rest room?” I said, momentarily distracted.

“The geek, Mother. He’s here-and he keeps looking at me,” Caron said. “Anyway, we tried to catch Miss Parchester, but we couldn’t keep up with her. My ankle, you how.”

“I know,” I said. “Tell Mr. Chippendale that I’ve gone to the lounge for an aspirin, and that I’ll be back after the break. Miss Parchester probably went to the basement to look for clues or some such thing. Perhaps I can persuade her to listen to me.”

I headed for the basement, aware that I was spending an inordinate amount of time in the dark bowels of this building. My flashlight was still in my purse (I do profit from experience), and I switched it on as I scuttled down the stairs. The corridor was empty. The lounge was locked. The journalism room was dark and still and held no hidden presence that I could discern from the doorway.

As I paused under the exit light to think, I noticed one of the classroom doors was ajar. A taped card had Miss Zuckerman’s name and a list of classes, which included such esoteric things as Steno II and A-V Machines: Advanced. Miss Parchester might have slipped in to pick up something for her friend, I decided as I eased through the door.

If she had, she was already gone. I shined the light on the far wall, which had inspirational messages taped in a tidy row. “Clean ribbons make clear copies.” “Type right on your typewriter.” The back wall exhorted the students to practice their swirls and curlicues. “Shorthand-your key to a good job.” A travel poster that touted the charms of Juarez contributed the one splash of color in an otherwise drab decor. Miss Zuckerman must have felt quite naughty when she included it, I thought with a sigh. “Nimble fingers come from practice.” My light continued. around the room. “Join the Future Secretaries of America.” “Speed and spelling equal salary.”

I decided to search the room in case Miss Parchester had inadvertently dropped some vital clue, such as a motel key. I began with the rows of shrouded typewriters and worked my way to the desk drawers. I expected to find rosters and lesson plans. I did not expect to find a crude little cigarette in an envelope.

During the sixties, I had encountered such things, sometimes in an intimate fashion. That had been more than fifteen years ago, however, and I was not sure I could trust my aged nose to ascertain if this was truly a marijuana cigarette. It seemed absurd that Tessa Zuckerman would have one stashed in her desk; she was hardly my idea of a dope dealer.

I could have called the police station and told Peter about my discovery. He could have sent Jorgeson over to collect the evidence and deliver it to the lab to be tested. Then he could have arranged for Miss Zuckerman to be transferred to a cell next to Miss Parchester’s, so that the two little old ladies could chat as they withered away in their prison garb. A murderer and a dope dealer, both with silver hair and porcelain skin.

I took a book of matches from my purse and lit the thing. If it turned out to be some thug’s innocent attempt to save a few cents on prefabricated cigarettes, then there would be no reason not to drop it in the trash can and go about my business. If it was illegally potent, I would have to tell Peter-at some point. I inhaled deeply and waited for the answer.

Oddly enough, I thought I could see Peter’s face. I was sitting on the floor, my head against the desk, when the light came on overhead and footsteps echoed like a Poutian revival. Frowning. I squinted up at the face hovering above me. No body, mind you. It was very, very peculiar. I warned myself to watch out.

“Claire?” it actually said. It sounded like Peter’s voice, which struck me as highly amusing, if not outright uproarious.

I clamped my hand over my giggle-my mouth-and said, “Where’s the rest of you?”

The rest of him came around the desk and squatted in front of me. “What’s wrong with you, Claire? Why are you sitting on the floor in a dark classroom?” His nose wrinkled (quite adorably, I thought), and he looked at the smoldering butt in my hand.

“Where did you get a joint, for Christ’s sake-and why are you smoking it now? Here?”

“Don’t have time later,” I told him smugly. “I’m in charge of five hundred-count ‘em-five hundred juvenile delinquents who want to dance all over each other. Want to show ‘em how to jitterbug, Supercop?”

“You are stoned,” he said in a stunned voice. “I presume there’s an explanation for this, and that you’re going to give it to me. Right?”

“I am not stoned. I am merely conducting an experiment, like the one I did with the pit peach. Peach pit. Remember when you saw me on the sidewalk with the hammer? It must have looked really funny.” I started to laugh as I recalled his expression, then discovered I was helpless to stop-but I didn’t mind one teeny-weeny bit. Finally I got hold of myself, or of something. It may have been Peter’s shoe.

“Give me the joint.” He held out his hand, and I obediently handed over the remains. He pulled me to my feet, which seemed to belong to someone else, and steadied me. “We are going to the lounge for a nice pot of coffee. I have a feeling you’re not quite ready to return to the dance.”

“I am too ready,” I sniffed. “A little wobbly, perhaps, but more than capable of chaperonage. I may even dance, if anyone asks me. Maybe by myself. Anyway, the lounge is locked. We can’t get in because we don’t have a key. Not even Supercop can walk through doors that are locked. Will you dance with me?”

He mutely showed me a key, then propelled me down the hall and into the lounge. I was placed unceremoniously on the mauve monster, and informed that I was not to move while he made coffee. Which was dandy with me, since I wasn’t sure I could move in any case. In any direction.

“If you want to arrest me, go ahead. I was chasing Miss Parchester,” I informed the doorway of the kitchenette, “and I lost her again. That woman is as fast as a damn minnow, and as slippery as a damn sardine. We ought to stake out the public aquarium, Peter.”

He came back into the room and handed me a cup of coffee. “I saw Caron in the gym, and she told me you were in hot pursuit of Miss Parchester.”

“For the zillionth time,” I agreed. “I thought you were on a stakeout, Sherlock. What are you doing at the school?”

“I came to check on you. You are, shall we say, at times unconventional in your investigative techniques.”

“Unconventional?” That rang a bell somewhere, but all I could do was blink at him. Bravely, I hoped.

“As in overzealous, impetuous, and illegal,” he said, holding the last of the joint in his fingertips.

I couldn’t tell if his smile was sincere or sarcastic, but I did like the color of his eyes. When I said as much, he pointed at the coffee cup and turned just a tad pink. “This isn’t my cup,” I said, studying the intricate swirls of roses and pastel leaves. “This could warrant a firing squad-or worse, you know. After you finish locking up poor Miss Parchester and poor Miss Zuckerman, will you come to my funeral?”

“Miss Parchester is still at large, and Miss Zuckerman is tucked safely in her hospital bed. As for the funeral, I’ll make a point of attending-it will be the one time I know exactly where you are and what you’re doing.”

I didn’t much like that, but I decided to let it go. “Mrs. Platchett takes this cup thing pretty seriously. She was more upset at me for borrowing her cup than she was about the deviled eggs.”

“Why was she upset about the deviled eggs?” he asked, not sounding especially concerned about my welfare.

“Well, she wasn’t upset about the deviled eggs, because Pitts hadn’t poked them. Did you know that broccoli doesn’t take fingerprints?”

“Actually, it does, but we can discuss the technical aspects later. Why did she think Pitts might poke the deviled eggs?”

“He poked everything.” I rubbed my forehead, which was beginning to ache. “I think I’d better have some more coffee.”

“I think you may recover,” he said with a smile. “Will you please tell me why I stumbled on to a stoned bookseller in the basement of the high school?”

I told him why. We agreed that I had erred in my decision to test the contents of the cigarette, and that I should have called him. I drank more coffee, my head propped on his shoulder, and told him about the problem of Jerry’s transcript, Paula’s reaction, and Thud Immerman’s reinstatement. None of it amazed him, although he did seem interested.

“Paula’s not as sweet as she acts,” I said, snuggling into his chest. “She might have murdered Weiss to protect her future, or she might have persuaded Jerry to do the dirty deed in order to protect her virtue.”

“He wasn’t in the lounge, and neither was she.”

“The murderer did have to enter the lounge between ten and ten-fifteen, when Evelyn came in to use the ladies room.” I glanced at the closed door of said establishment. “If I’d known about the hole, I might have murdered Pitts myself.”

“The hole was discovered the day after Weiss’s funeral, so it could have been a motive in the second murder. We just can’t find a decent motive for Weiss’s murder, except vengeance.”

“Meaning Miss Parchester?”

“I’m sorry, Claire. I don’t enjoy the idea of chasing some elderly lady around Farberville to question her about her recipe for peach compote, but she did have a reason to be angry at Weiss. I do need to ask her a few questions, if only to permit her to prove her innocence.”

“I know,” I said, sighing. The fuzzy pink slippers must have been wearing thin, considering the miles they’d done in the last six days. The hospital, the parade, the dance, probably the football game, and the school. The woman had been everywhere, but was nowhere to be found-while the judge rotated in his grave. “What are you going to do about the marijuana in Miss Zuckerman’s desk?”

“Ask her, although I would imagine she confiscated it from one of her students.”

“And failed to turn it in to the authorities? If she’s like her sister Furies, she’s probably a stickler for regulations. Maybe she found it the day of the potluck and did not have an opportunity to deal with it.”

He nodded. Before he could say anything. Caron limped into the lounge. “Mr. Chippendale is frantic, Mother. He sent me to search for you, because the band members took off their shirts and he thinks they may take off more. He says they are virtually Out of Control, although I don’t know what he expects you to do.”

“Call in the cavalry,” I said, smiling at Peter. “Surely you can strike a chord of fear in their atonal souls.”

We went to the gym. We didn’t, however, jitterbug until dawn. Actually, it was more like three in the morning.