Dear Miss Demeanor

TWELVE

I went the Book Depot the next morning and opened up for business, the ledgers having hinted at the desirability of earning a few dollars, if not an actual fistful or more. I sold books, straightened shelves, filed invoices, and griped long-distance about delayed orders. It was all fairly normal until Caron and Inez limped through the door, gasping and panting. As always, normalcy fled in the face of post-pubescent theatrics. I could not.

“Did you hear about Cheryl Anne and Thud?” Caron demanded.

“No, I heard about a fire at a university press and something about an order shipped to Alaska by mistake, but nary a word about the queen and the jock.”

“They Broke Up.” Caron folded her arms and stared at me, willing me to blanche, grab the edge of the counter, and beg for further details. “They’ve been going steady for Two Whole Years,” she added when preliminary fireworks failed to explode.

“A blessing for the future of the human race,” I said. “I cringe at the thought of the offspring those two might have conceived.”

Inez gulped. “It was terrible, Mrs. Malloy. They had a big scene in the parking lot after the dance, and Cheryl Anne told Thud to drop dead, preferably in the middle of the highway.”

“In front of a truck,” Caron added.

“He was furious.” Inez.

“He called her dreadful names.” Caron.

“Slut.” Inez, with a shiver.

“Cheap little whore.” Caron, without.

“She told him he was a miserable football player, that he ought to play against twelve-year-old girls.” Inez.

“He said he’d played with little girls too long.” Caron.

“He said he was ready for a real woman.” Inez.

The Abbott and Costello routine was giving me a pain in the neck, physically as well as metaphorically. I held up my hand and said, “Wait a minute, please. I really am not interested in an instant replay of their witticisms, no matter how colorful they may have been. May I assume Cheryl Anne was upset because Thud failed to win the game single-handedly and ensure a Homecoming celebration fraught with significance and glistening memories?”

Caron and Inez nodded, enthralled by my perspicacity.

“And,” I continued, “she was especially upset because she had worked so hard to see that he was eligible to play?” More nods. “By the way, how did Thud convince Miss Dort to reinstate him?”

“Nobody knows,” Caron said, widening her eyes to convey the depth of her bewilderment. I wasn’t sure if it came from the inexplicable behavior of her elders or the failure of the grapevine to ascertain the gory details.

“It’s sheer mystery,” Inez said. She attempted the same ploy, but she looked more like an inflated puffer fish. She needed practice. And perhaps contact lenses.

I shooed them out the door and sat down behind the counter. There were too many unanswered questions drifting around the corridors of Farberville High School, too many petty schemes and undercurrents. Too many bits of conversation that might-or might not-have relevance. Way too much gossip.

I called Evelyn, my primary source of gossip. “Who has a key to the building?” I asked once we’d completed the necessary pleasantries. “Very few,” she told me. “Mr. Weiss decided several years ago that loose keys sank ships, or something to that effect. All of the teachers were required to turn in their keys.”

“Sherwood has one.”

“Sherwood lives next door to a locksmith. His copy is illicit, but it’s saved both of us a lot of hassle when we’ve forgotten a stack of tests or one of the dreaded must-have-first-thing-in-the-morning forms.”

“Have you heard of anyone else with a copy?”

“No,” she said after some thought. “Weiss had one, naturally, as did Bernice. Perhaps school board members, although I don’t know why. Head of maintenance, but no one on the level of Pitts.”

“Miss Parchester or the Furies?” I said without much hope.

“Of course not. None of the teachers except an anomaly like Sherwood would want to have an illicit copy of the key. If something happened in the building after school hours, I certainly would like to be able to swear, under oath or polygraph, that I didn’t have access.”

“You’re fond of the anomaly, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am.” The confession sounded sad.

I told her that there’d been someone in the building the night Sherwood and I had indulged in a mild spot of prowling. She was fairly sure it couldn’t have been a teacher-unless it was the one who’d let me in the building in the first place. I was fairly sure Sherwood hadn’t stolen the letters from under my nose. I asked her if she’d heard anything further about the mysterious reinstatement of the jock, and she told me that she hadn’t.

I bade her farewell, took a deep breath, and called Miss Bernice fort. After eleven unanswered rings, I hung up in disgust.

When Peter wandered by later in the morning, I was still behind the counter, staring at the nonfiction shelves and grumbling under my breath. “Any progress?” I asked morosely.

“Miss Parchester continues to elude us, and she seems to be our only decent suspect thus far. The lab reports are back, but they don’t say much of anything we hadn’t already suspected. Pitts ingested more than three hundred fifty milligrams of cyanide, which was dissolved in the whiskey.”

“Was it also organic?”

“It was. A sample has been sent to the regional lab for a more precise analysis, but it’ll take weeks to get the results. We’re presuming Pitts was murdered with-well, with pits.”

“Pitts poked the peach pits.” I said, gnawing on my lip.

Peter grinned. “That’s what you claimed last night, among other more whimsical things.”

“There are too many damn p’s in this. Pitts the peeper, peaches, Parchester, plagiarism, Paula, principals, pouters, poisonous pits, and parades! It’s worse than the jackhammer.”

“Not to mention policemen and prowling prevaricators.”

“Stop the p’s!” I gestured for him to accompany me to my office, where I offered (not poured) coffee and a dusty chair. “I am going to figure this damn thing out without any Farther alliteration. Let’s begin with another source for the toxic substance.”

“It’s definitely organic,” Peter said, leaning back with a tolerant expression. “Officers of the law do not dismiss coincidences; they leap on them. Toxic compote, made from… a certain fruit with a toxic interior.”

“But Jorgeson told me that cyanide is found in the seeds of a variety of fruits. Apples, cherries, apricots, and so forth-why couldn’t one of those be the source?”

“One of them could, I suppose, but we haven’t come across any of them in the investigation.”

I stared at him. “I may have, though.”

He stared right back. “When? What?”

“It’s just a wild guess-but there was a souvenir from Mexico.

“Lots of tourists go to Mexico, Claire; they all buy things to bring home and discard a few weeks later. Hundreds of thousands of tourists, I would estimate.”

“And they go for a variety of reasons, both conventional and unconventional.” I toyed with the theory for a few minutes, trying to find slots for all the disparate bits of information (not pieces of the puzzle, mind you). “Apricots and Mexico. The joint in the desk. Charles Dickens. It almost makes sense, Lieutenant Rosen, although it means we’ve been looking at this thing from the wrong side of the hole.”

“Apricots, Mexico, Dickens, and dope? How many joints did you find in Miss Zuckerman’s desk?”

“Just the one,” I said distractedly. “It was evidence of a sort, although I don’t think we’ll need it for court. The murderer is going to get away with the crime. We couldn’t see the apricots for the peaches.”

“I’m not sure you’ve frilly recovered from the effects of the marijuana,” he said, looking at me as if I were atop the file cabinet with a rose clenched between my teeth. “We might run by the hospital and have you checked for lingering euphoria.”

“My idea, exactly.” I grabbed my jacket and hurried out of the office, followed by a bewildered cop (as opposed to a perplexed policeman). I directed him to drive me to the hospital, then clammed up and stared out the window.

As we neared the lot, I told him that I wanted to visit Miss Zuckerman before he arranged for a straitjacket and a handful of Thorazine. When he sputtered, I suggested we question her about the joint that was ingested in the name of scientific discovery. He agreed, albeit with minimal grace.

I stopped at the nurses’ station to inquire about Miss Zuckerman’s status. We were informed that she was critical, but allowed short visits by close friends and family members. She did look critical, more frail than she’d been a few days ago and even grayer. Her skin was translucent, her bruised arms sprouting needles and tubes that led to bags above her head.

She managed a smile. “Mrs. Malloy, how kind of’ you.”

“I believe you know Lieutenant Rosen,” I murmured. “We stopped by for only a minute, so please let us know when you’re too tired for visitors.”

“I intend to enjoy my visitors as long as I’m here,” she said. “This morning Alexandria and Mae came by to tell me about the Homecoming game. So hard for the students to lose their big game, but they’ll get over it. The resilience of youth in the face of disaster is remarkable, you know, as long as they can rely on the wisdom of their elders to protect them from true evil.”

“Drug dealers, for instance?” I said softly.

“Wicked, wicked people.”

“It must have been difficult to see Pius every day when you knew what dreadful things he was doing to the students.”

“He was very wicked.”

“The marijuana cigarette was the last straw, wasn’t it?” I prompted, ignoring Peter’s sudden intake of breath behind me.

“I’d been observing him for several months, but this was the first time I actually saw him sell drugs. The student, when confronted, was properly contrite and vowed to never again purchase illegal substances, but I knew Pitts had to be removed from Farberville High School. Since Mr. Weiss seemed unwilling to take action, I felt obliged to act on my convictions.”

“You happened to have cyanide with you-in your purse, I would guess-and you knew Pitts would eat anything that caught his fancy in the refrigerator in the teachers’ lounge.”

She gave me a beatific smile. “Very good, dear. I’m not sure that I intended to kill him; I hoped he would become very ill, and perhaps quit his job and go elsewhere. I crushed a dozen or so pills and mixed them in Emily’s little jar of compote. I never dreamed Mr. Weiss would eat it first… but he wasn’t a very nice man, either. He was supposed to set an example for the students, yet he was having an affair with Bernice fort. I was listening at my post when Pitts sold the information to Cheryl Anne, who seemed to be pleased to learn her father was a philanderer. I was appalled, I must say.

I felt an elbow in my back. I ground my heel on a convenient foot, then bent over the hospital bed and said, “No one saw you enter or leave the lounge, Miss Zuckerman.”

“No one ever noticed me. After all those years, I’m afraid I simply became part of the backdrop, a pathetic gray ghost who haunted the basement of the school. Once I made up my mind to teach Pitts a lesson, I assigned a lengthy paragraph to my Ad Sten class, slipped off to the lounge, and returned without my absence being noticed.”

“Was there anyone in the lounge?”

“Mrs. West’s student teacher was present, but she didn’t notice me, either. Young people tend to find the elderly invisible; it helps them avoid facing their own mortality.” She glanced away for a moment. “It hasn’t been a very exciting life, but it has been rewarding. I did take a trip to a foreign country once; it was dirty, yet the cultural differences intrigued me. I would have liked to travel more.”

“The clinic in Mexico?”

“Yes, but the doctors there said it was too late to control the malignancy. I followed the diet and took the vitamins, enzymes, and tablets, hoping for a miracle. It did not occur. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better rest.” Her eyelids drifted down with a faint flutter. She began to snore in a quiet, ladylike way.

Peter moved forward, but I caught his arm and pulled him out of the room. “Would you explain?” he snapped as we started for the elevator. “Am I correct in assuming Tessa Zuckerman murdered Weiss?”

“She did, although she was actually after Pitts. It was her farewell gift to the school.”

“She ‘happened’ to have cyanide in her purse?”

“Laetrile, made from apricot pits. You remember the controversy about it in all the newspapers several years ago, don’t you? The proponents claimed it was the ultimate cure for cancer; the medical authorities claimed it was quackery to exploit those poor souls too terrified to pass up any possibility. Ultimately, those who chose to try it had to go to clinics in Mexico, where it was legal.”

“And Miss Zuckerman went to such an establishment, and brought home a supply of Laetrile tablets, along with a travel poster,” Peter said. “When she decided to rid the school of its dope dealer, she crushed a few tablets and popped them in the compote?”

I nodded. “She made the hole in the women’s rest room so that she could spy on Pitts to determine if he was indeed the villain he was rumored to be. He was telling the truth the day he claimed he hadn’t made the hole, although I imagine that once he discovered it, he did use it to eavesdrop and report to Weiss. He lacked the acumen to realize that it could be used two ways.

“So Miss Zuckerman observed a transaction and decided to poison him,” Peter said. “It didn’t work out as she intended, although she did not seem inordinately disturbed by the result.”

“Married men with families should not have affairs,” I said, shrugging. “It might prove dangerous-or fatal.”

“I’ll note that in the report,” he said. He rewarded me with a glimpse of his teeth. It was unsettling.

We drove hack to my apartment. As we reached the top of the stairs, Caron hobbled out the door, caught sight of Peter, and froze in a posture reminiscent of Pout’s lead guitarist in a moment of spasmodic bliss.

“Oh,” she breathed at us.

I tried to move around her, but she held her ground in the middle of the doorway. “You’re supposed to go to the station,” she said to Peter. “Right away, because of some emergency. They said to go right away.”

“I’d better call in and see what’s happening,” he said.

“You don’t have time to call. It’s a terrible emergency, and they want you to hurry there without wasting any time on the telephone. Besides, Inez is talking to her sick grandmother in Nebraska.”

He gave her a suspicious look, told me he’d call later, and left to face whatever dire trouble my Cassandra was so eager to predict. Once the front door closed below, said oracle stepped back and said, “Thank God we got rid of him, Mother. I wasn’t prepared for him to be with you, and I couldn’t think what to say.

“You made up that story? He’ll learn the truth in about ten minutes, Caron, and he won’t be amused.” I went into the living room and stared at Inez, who was huddled in the corner with the telephone. “Why did Inez find a sudden compulsion to talk to her grandmother in Nebraska, for that matter? What on earth is-?”

“Miss Parchester,” Inez whispered, pointing at the receiver. “Caron told me to keep her on the line until you got here, Mrs. Malloy. I think she’s getting suspicious; you’d better take over now.”

I grabbed the receiver. “Miss Parchester?”

“Mrs. Malloy, it’s so lovely to have this opportunity to speak with you again after all this time. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Miss Parchester. Where are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ve seen you here and there, but it’s been quite impossible to actually have a word in private. I seem to keep running into policemen wherever I go; it’s so distressing.”

“Where are you?” I repeated, determined to stay calm. “If you’ll tell me where you are, I’ll come right over and we can have many words in private. I have lots of things to tell you.”

“I’d be delighted to have a little conference with you, since I realize you’ve worked hard on the investigation, but”-there was a long pause, during which I prayed she wasn’t taking a discreet nip or two-”I do fear the presence of the police. They have been following me, and they may be following you, too. An undercover officer in a bizarre disguise literally attacked me at the hospital, but I was fortunate to elude him.”

I was worried that Peter would storm up the stairs at any moment to discuss deception with my daughter. If I could only find Miss Parchester and allay her fears, then I knew I could persuade her to present herself at the police station. My track record wasn’t very good, but I am an eternal optimist.

“Miss Parchester,” I said with great earnestness, “I know who murdered Mr. Weiss. I know who fiddled with the journalism ledgers, and I know why. Don’t you want me to come tell you about it?”

“I know all that, my dear,” she giggled. “I’m a trained reporter, as you know, and I’ve been doing a little snooping. I feel incredibly akin to Miss Jane Marple. We’re of a similar age.”

As I gaped at the receiver, Caron tapped me on the shoulder. “Ask her if I can have an exclusive interview, Mother. We can put it on the front page of the Falcon Crier, with a byline, naturally, and maybe a photograph.”

I made a face, took a breath, and searched my mind for the proper response to Miss Parchester’s blithe assurance that she knew all that, my dear. My mind failed me. “You do?” I said.

“I’ve enjoyed our chat, Mrs. Malloy, but I’d better run along now,” she said with the faintest hiccup. “I have an errand, and soon it will be teatime.”

Before I could wiggle my jaw, the line went dead.

“You didn’t even ask about the interview,” Caron said, her lip inching forward in preparation for a scene. “Aren’t you at all interested in my future in journalism?”

“I have a camera,” Inez contributed sadly.

“You’d better worry about the immediate situation,” I said as I headed for the liquor cabinet. “Once Peter returns, you may not have a future.”

The girls discovered the necessity of retiring to the college library to work on reports for American history. I sank into the sofa and tried to find satisfaction in having identified Weiss’s murderer, but it didn’t leave me tingling with self-respect. Miss Zuckerman was too near death to be disturbed by the police; Peter would hide the report until she was gone, then file it away for posterity.

Miss Zuckerman had murdered Weiss, albeit in a haphazard manner. She had then been wheeled to the hospital, and had been incarcerated there ever since. Which led to an inescapable problem: Who poisoned Pitts? The memory of Miss Parchester’s giggle began to haunt me. She seemed to be well informed of the identities of various players in the cast. Had she stumbled across the identity of the second murderer? Was she in danger?

She certainly couldn’t defend herself with a fuzzy pink slipper. On the other hand, she had managed to avoid an entire police force for most of a week, so surely she could avoid a killer as well. If she wasn’t one.

“She’s innocent,” I said, pounding the pillow. A lapse into alliteration, but justified. Where was she? I hew she wasn’t at Mrs. Platchett’s house, or at Miss Bagby’s. She wasn’t at home, the school, the police station, or the Book Depot (yes, I had looked). Peter had warned me that he had men at the hospital, but I decided she had enough of her wits left to avoid there. Happy Meadows would have turned her in like a shot, since “we” didn’t want any problems with the police.

There was one place left, a fairly good possibility. I downed my scotch and hurried to my car, then hurried right back up stairs and grabbed the telephone book. The name was not listed. I hurried back downstairs, admittedly somewhat breathless by this time, and drove to Miss Bagby’s duplex.

“I’m sorry to disrupt your weekend,” I said when she appeared behind the screen, “but I need Tessa Zuckerman’s address.”

“She’s still in the hospital, Mrs. Malloy.”

“I was there earlier in the afternoon. I thought I might go by her house to water her plants and check on things,” I said, not adding that the one thing I wanted to check on ran around town in bedroom slippers.

Miss Bagby had heard too many excuses about incomplete assignments and missing homework. “How remarkable of her to ask you rather than Alexandria or me,” she said, her lips a-twitch with doubt. “Did she give you a key?”

I considered telling her my dog ate it, but instead I said, “I walked right out of the hospital without it. She’s doing poorly; I’d hate to disturb her about a minor detail like a house key, wouldn’t you?”

After a moment of silence, Miss Bagby told me the address and the location of the house key, which was under the welcome mat. We’re rather casual about that sort of thing in Farberville; it drives Peter Rosen et al crazy, but the burglars haven’t caught on yet.

I drove to Miss Zuckerman’s house and hid my car at the far end of the driveway. It was a tidy bungalow, similar to that of Mrs. Platchett-although I doubted a single leaf dared to fall on her yard. Here there were indications that no one had been home for several days. The shades were drawn, the door locked. The key was not under the welcome mat. Opting for simplicity, I rang the doorbell. Simplicity didn’t work, so I sat down on the top step of the porch to consider my next move.

I was still sitting there, uninspired, when the pink fuzzies ambled up the sidewalk, with a few minor digressions to either side. Miss Parchester tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed me, but I stood up. brushed off the seat of my pants, and trailed her into the house.

“It took me a long time to figure out where you were,” I said. “I did accuse Mrs. Platchett and Miss Bagby of hiding you, but they were offended at the suggestion. I forgot to ask Tessa Zuckerman.”

“She is a dear friend,” Miss Parchester said. She took off her coat and plastic rain bonnet, propped her umbrella in a corner, and patted a few stray wisps of hair back into place. “She seemed slightly better today, although tired after her conversation with you and that nice policeman with whom you keep company.

“That nice policeman has been wanting a word with you for a week, as have I. In fact, that same policeman assigned several of his men to detain you, should you return to the hospital. Did you not encounter any of them?”

“I have been very cautious since I was attacked outside Tessa’s room. Today I borrowed a bathrobe from a linen closet in order to pose as a patient; yesterday I wore a white coat and carried a clipboard. It presents a challenge, but the Judge trained me to utilize all my talents, and I have strived all my life to follow his wisdom.” She hiccupped at me, then put her fingers on her lips and giggled. “It was most challenging to leave my country establishment without arousing unwanted attention.”

“And how did you accomplish that?” I asked. As always, I supposed I ought to call Peter and share my discovery, but I was fascinated with her tale of exploits.

“In a laundry basket. It was unpleasant until I accustomed myself to the odor, and terribly uncomfortable. The laundry service is quite lax about leaving baskets in their vans; I must mention it to the matron so that she can speak to them.”

“So you slipped out with the sheets in order to investigate,” I prompted. “What have you been doing since then, besides avoiding an entire police department and attending school functions?”

“Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs. Malloy? I’m sure Tessa would not mind if we borrowed just a little and some water.”

“No, no,” I said hastily, “let’s finish our chat before we indulge in-in tea. How did you learn that Miss Dort and Mr. Weiss were responsible for the errors in the journalism ledger?”

“The last letter to Miss Demeanor was, I fear, explicit. I turned quite pink at some of the language, but it was impossible to avoid the conclusion that the two were having some sort of relationship. The rest was obvious, wasn’t it?”

After a fashion, and a week of reading old Falcon Criers “Did you take the packet of letters from the school office?”

“Oh, my goodness, no. Although the letters should have been in the journalism mailbox, I happened to find them in Mr. Weiss’s desk the afternoon of his funeral. I certainly did not take the letter in question with me as evidence; the judge was very adamant about illegal search and seizure. However, I don’t believe he ever gave an opinion from the bench about reading.”

“You searched his desk, though.”

“In the name of freedom of the press, my dear. The judge instilled in me a strong sense of priorities.”

“How did you get into the building?”

“Mr. Pitts happened to be mopping the hallway and graciously let me inside. He even invited me to eat a meal with him, but I declined. Pizza is difficult to manage with dentures.”

“You were in the school the afternoon Pitts died?” I said. “Did he mention anyone else in the building?”

“Pitts-died?” She turned white and put her hand on her chest. “I had no idea, no inkling of this. I feel quite stunned by the news. Mrs. Malloy, could you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water?”

I went in the kitchen for water, then decided to hell with it and took the brandy bottle off the table. Once she was settled with a medicinal dose, her color improved to a pastel flush, if not a rosy glow. “You didn’t know about Pitts?” I said.

“No, I am flabbergasted to hear of his death,” she said. “I have not been able to watch the evening news, since I was worried someone might notice a light. Please tell me what happened to him.”

“Let’s discuss the murder of Herbert Weiss first. Were you aware that Miss Zuckerman spied on Pitts through the hole in the ladies room of the lounge, and overheard him selling certain information to Cheryl Anne?”

“She told me several days ago, but in the strictest confidence.”

“Did she also mention that she laced your compote with Laetrile in order to poison him?”

Miss Parchester took a long drink of brandy, then looked up with a bleary smile. “Not in so many words, but I did wonder. I visited her classroom last night to see if her pills might be in a drawer, but I heard a policeman come down the stairs after me. I fled through the exit by the boiler.”

“But you did know she had cancer, and had been to a Mexican clinic to try Laetrile-which is basically cyanide?”

“It seemed obvious.”

The judge had trained his daughter well, I told myself in an admiring voice. Or we had varying definitions of “obvious,” with mine leaning toward “tentatively guessed after a week of agonized concentration.”

“Tessa Zuckerman poisoned the peach compote and Herbert Weiss via a slight miscalculation, but she’s been in the hospital since the day of the potluck. Who do you think murdered Pitts?” I asked her.

“I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Malloy, I really couldn’t say.”

Damn. I’d been hoping it was obvious.