Poisoned Pins

4

At some point Caron had groveled and I’d granted a period of probation, although I’d made it clear that I considered her a habitual offender who’d best tiptoe through the rest of the summer unless she wanted to walk through the rest of her high school years. Peter seemed to have tiptoed off to battle larcenous mall rats, which was fine with me.

On Friday I called Luanne Bradshaw and arranged to meet her late in the afternoon at the beer garden.

“A secret whistle, if you can imagine,” I said to her after we’d settled down at a corner picnic table shaded by a lush wisteria vine. “I always associated that kind of thing with the male-only clubs where they wear funny hats and play games in the woods. It never occurred to me that I was living next door to it.”

Luanne snickered at me, as she so often was inclined to do. She’s of a similar age and political persuasion, divorced, and owns Secondhand Rose, a used-clothing store that specializes in outrageously funky clothes from the thirties and forties. This endears her to Caron, who has elevated avarice to an art form, and I regret to say Luanne’s not immune to taking advantage of it when she needs help unpacking a shipment or straightening stock.

“And a ritual closet,” I added, wiggling my eyebrows. “I’ve learned they keep candles in it, but for all we know, they’ve got an altar; hooded robes hanging on hooks, and all sorts of medieval instruments of torture. They seem to go through cats on a regular basis.”

Luanne refilled her cup from the pitcher, somehow managing to light a cigarette in the midst of the process, and leaned back against the rough bench. “Could this sudden obsession with a houseful of flat-bellied girls have any relationship to what you perceive to be impending bankruptcy?”

“There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“It’s characteristic of those of us who are categorized as Sophisticates,” she said, letting smoke dribble out of the corners of her mouth in the style of an aged Hollywood starlet. “You are no doubt aware of the ramifications of being labeled thusly, but it had to be explained to me in great detail. For a small fee, of course.”

“You didn’t…?”

“I resisted as best I could, but your daughter is not only charmingly persuasive, but also more obstinate than any one-eyed mule in the state. I finally got fed up with listening to her whine and agreed to a color analysis, although I was terrified I would be deemed something like ‘anemic’. I’m sure you’re vastly relieved to know that because of my milky white skin, ebony hair with silver highlights, and clear blue eyes with risqué white flecks, I am definitely a Sophisticate. This means I’m allowed to wear black, white, emerald, and navy-but under no circumstances short of my own funeral am I to be caught dead in brown or orange.” She plucked at her shirt and made a face. “I don’t remember if I absolutely must wear green or absolutely must not. What do you think-am I radiant or muddy?”

“Definitely radiant. At least you know how to avoid humiliating yourself in public. I’ve yet to submit, and based on the number of smirks and snorts aimed at me daily, I obviously am violating my palette and therefore denying myself immeasurable happiness and admiration. How much did she hit you for?”

“Ten dollars. I resisted the accessory awareness nonsense, so I do have a smidgen of self-esteem. Why on earth do you allow her to do this, Claire?”

“Allow her to do this?” I laughed at such naiveté. “Come on, you raised a couple of teenagers not that long ago. Did you really charge into battle over the misdemeanors, or did you save your energy for the full-fledged felonies? That dippy sorority girl has Caron convinced that there’s a bag of money waiting to be plucked out of the gutter by the next My Beautiful Self consultant. My formerly articulate daughter now drifts around the apartment muttering obtusely about the emotional acceptance of one’s palette, but only when she’s not drooling on the automotive section of the classified ads. She and Inez did a clothes exchange that would have shamed a roomful of commodities brokers. They sustained a disagreement about whether a sweater was cocoa or chocolate until I found myself in the doorway screaming that it was brown and that was that and if I heard one more word about it, it would be reverted to a ball of yarn.”

Luanne gazed thoughtfully at a trio of men entering the beer garden, dismissed them for failing to meet an unspecified criterion of hers, and replenished her cup. “And are the big bucks rolling in as promised?”

“She’s having a bit of trouble finding clients. She conned Inez ‘s mother and the woman who rents the downstairs apartment, and you, of course, but she hasn’t mentioned any others. Oddly enough, her friends aren’t eager to fork over ten dollars to be told their wardrobes are total disasters. I heard her arguing with Rhonda on the telephone, and I sat up all night, fully expecting the house to be torched by someone whose unfortunate sallowness could be corrected in a single session. I’m afraid Caron’s training was strong on palettes and weak on tact.”

“She’ll learn eventually,” Luanne said as she stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I know cradle-robbing’s unattractive, but is it truly tacky?”

Having no problem with the non sequitur, I glanced over my shoulder and turned back with a wicked grin. “As long as you don’t mind being asked if you’re his mother or his baby-sitter”

We debated various male, manly, and macho attributes until the pitcher was empty and the garden began to grow crowded and noisy. The sight of a quintet of shaggy-haired boys setting up mammoth speakers on the stage in preparation to assault our sensibilities was more than enough to send us away. When we reached the sidewalk, Luanne headed for her store and I strolled toward my apartment. There was little traffic in the street alongside the campus lawn, thus allowing me to savor the scent of honeysuckle rather than the stench of auto exhaust.

I was contemplating which frozen entree might best suit my mood when a voice hissed my name from the shrubbery next to the Kappa Theta Eta house. It was enough to jolt me out of my gluttonous reverie, and as I turned, I saw blue lights flashing in the alley behind the house. Static from a radio mingled with the barking of male voices and the slamming of car doors.

A single light glinted in the front room, bat the porch light was off and the shadows exceedingly thick on either side. They’d also spoken to me, which was less than heartening. These were the very same shadows that had produced prowlers only a few nights earlier-rude and rambunctious prowlers who knocked down women.

“Psst! Miz Malloy!” the voice repeated beseechingly.

I opted not to rush headlong into potential physical discomfort. “Who is it?”

“I got to talk to you. I think I’m in trouble.”

“Unlike Moses, I do not converse with bushes. You have two seconds to show yourself. Otherwise, I shall either scream for the police, who are conveniently situated behind the house, or perhaps merely continue to my apartment to microwave a low-sodium serving of fettuccini with a medley of garden vegetables and a tangy cheese sauce. Got that, bush?”

A hunched figure emerged. To my dismay, it was Arnie. He held up a trembling hand and said, “Don’t scream, for pete’s sake. This ain’t none of my doing, Senator, but I seem to be in what some might describe as a sticky situation. What say we go to your place and discuss it over a martini or two?”

He came to the sidewalk, where I had a better view of his wet, slack mouth and a better whiff of his indifference to personal hygiene. “I don’t know what all’s going on back there,” he continued. “It most likely has to do with the body in the middle of the alley, but with the cops, you can’t ever be sure what they’re up to.” He winked at me, although it seemed to require more than minimal effort. “I guess my appointment is canceled, so how about a little drink, Senator?”

I jammed my hands in my pockets before I lost my resolve and punched him in the nose. “You know damn well that I’m not a senator. Just drop it and explain what you said about a body in the alley.”

“It’s not a pretty sight,” he said, shaking his head. “Come to think of it, Washington Weekly will be on before too long. Tonight’s topic is the impact of the trade agreements with Japan on the American auto industry, which happens to be of particular interest to me. Helluva show, doncha think, Senator?”

“Arnie,” I said with all the venom I could muster, “let’s get this straight once and-”

“Smile!” He whipped a camera from behind his back. The flash exploded in my eyes, and for a brief moment all I could see were ragged red and purple circles. They’d not yet faded completely as he scuttled past me, climbed into his truck, and drove away, his taillights blinking farewell long before I could concoct a response.

Arnie’s repeated avowals of my political position arose from an incident in the past, when he’d been assigned to drive a state senator and a local beauty queen in the Thurberfest parade. He’d shown up drunk and obligated me, the very unwilling assistant pageant director, to play chauffeur (while dodging bullets). In his alcoholic haze he’d decided I was the senator rather than the beauty queen-a politically correct yet mildly insulting assumption. When Caron had lured me into investigating a pet-theft ring, Arnie’d nearly managed to have me arrested for harboring a fugitive, and shortly thereafter he’d come close to watching me chewed to bits by a trio of enraged pit bulls. All in all, he was not a dear friend. Given the chance, I would have driven a stake through his heart. Cheerfully.

In the alley, the blue lights continued to rotate and the radios to crackle. More car doors slammed, and the beam of a flashlight bobbled on the foliage. There was like1y to be an iota of truth in Arnie’s statement, I thought as I hesitated on the sidewalk and tried to discern what was happening. The alley ran behind several Greek communes, of both the imposing and the marginally renovated varieties, and it was a handy shortcut from the bastions of academia to the bars of Thurber Street. Although I had to drive a short distance on it to park in the basement garage of my duplex, I rarely promenaded down it, being as averse to miasmatic garbage dumpsters as I was to sweat-and to Arnie.

I finally went past my house, turned at the corner, and turned again at the north end of the alley. There were three police cars parked behind the Kappa house, their lights flashing mutely, and spotlights had been placed to illuminate what I assumed was the cause of the official presence.

An engraved invitation was not likely, nor would I be welcomed into the group and offered details. I knew from experience that officers at the scene of the crime could be blustery and indignant over the presence of a civic-minded citizen who was eager to share her insights into the heinous deed. Peter Rosen, for example, could be quite adamant about what he considered meddlesome intrusions.

There was more going on than a case of a cat flattened by a garbage truck, however, and I was determined to find out what it was. I approached tentatively, pausing every step to scan the crowd for Peter or his minion, Jorgeson. I wasn’t at all sure if I’d have more success with them or without them, and I was decidedly ambivalent when I caught a glimpse of Peter’s curly black hair as he beckoned at an ambulance creeping toward the scene from the opposite direction.

“Okay,” I heard him snap, “where’s the medical examiner? You called him-when? Ten minutes ago? Unlike this poor girl, we don’t have all night!”

Jorgeson appeared, consulting his watch, and pulled Peter aside to converse. I was keeping an eye on them as I edged forward, and therefore yelped when a flashlight caught me in the face and an unfamiliar voice said, “Hey, Lieutenant, we got a sightseer You want I should sell her a ticket-or does she already have a season pass?”

This did not amuse Lieutenant Peter Rosen, who shook off Jorgeson’s hand and stalked to the edge of the lights. “Claire,” he said with petulance rather than the enthusiasm for which I’d hoped, “what are you doing here? Just go to your apartment and wait, okay? I’ve got enough problems as it is, and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor lurking nearby.”

“I never lurk,” I said. “I am merely taking an interest in a crime committed not more than twenty feet from my back door. For all I know, the murderer is lurking in my kitchen.”

“No one said anything about murder,” he growled.

“You and the gang didn’t come out to investigate the theft of a dumpster, did you?” I shaded my eyes and permitted myself a small grimace. “My eyes have been subject to enough abuse tonight. Would you please ask your pyrotechnical expert to give me a break?”

Peter gestured at the officer, then came over to me and gave me a look meant to intimidate me into flight into the nearest haven. “Civilians are not allowed at the scene of a crime,” he said in his steeliest cop voice. “We’ve got the weapon, and in any case, it’s unlikely you could be run down in your kitchen by a 1973 Buick. Please, this one time, let me do my job without your assistance. When I can get away, I’ll come by and tell you what happened.”

“Was it one of the girls from the Kappa Theta Eta house?”

He bit down on his lip in a manner I found incredibly virile, but I left it unspoken. He said, “We don’t have a positive ID yet. If she was carrying a purse, the impact knocked it into the brush or it was taken from the scene.” He glowered at me. “You don’t know them, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I had dinner at the house in the middle of the week, and am capable of identifying any one of them. However, I sense that I’m interrupting, so I’ll run along home and have a nice cup of tea while you and the boys get back to business.” I took a couple of steps backward to prove I wasn’t bluffing. “Call me when you can.”

“We’re not going to find her purse tonight, Lieutenant,” a uniformed officer called. “The undergrowth’s a damn jungle. Maybe it’ll turn up tomorrow when we can see what we’re doing.”

Peter was now biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, and I could see it took an effort on his part to relent and mutter, “See if you recognize her.”

I allowed myself to be escorted between two police cars, and then forced myself to look down at the body sprawled on the eroded asphalt surface. Once I was sure, I spun away and bent over the hood of one of the cars struggling not to lose the beer I’d imbibed. I squeezed my eyes closed, but the image of the lifeless face and ribbons of blood seemed all the more intense, more vivid than the reality.

Peter rested his hand on my back. “Is she one of the girls from this sorority house?”

I gulped back the bitterness that rose in my throat, and stood up. “Her name was Jean Hall. She was…“ I harshly rubbed my temples as if my fingers could erase the image. “She was planning to attend law school at Yale in the fall. She was enrolled in one course this summer, and also worked for the dean of the law school here.” I moved out of the light and kept my eyes locked on Peter’s face. “What happened to her? She looks as though she’d been run down by a fleet of buses.”

He pointed at a wide white car that was partially buried in a tangle of brush. “The lab boys are on their way, but we’re fairly certain that’s the vehicle, and we’re running the plates right now. A brown substance on the front bumper appears to be blood, and a headlight is broken.”

“But she was…“ I couldn’t find the word, much less say it aloud in the presence of the badly violated body.

Peter put his hands on my shoulders and drew me across the alley, where he could wrap his arms around me without risking grins from his cohorts. “The initial impact most likely killed her instantly, or at least knocked her unconscious. Go on upstairs, Claire. As soon as I’m done, I’ll join you for a drink. I have to deal with this, but I don’t like it any better than you, especially when it’s a kid.”

“What about the girls in the house, and the housemother? Why aren’t they out here? How could they not see the lights? I don’t understand why-”

He dug his fingers into my back until I stopped sputtering at his shoulder. “There’s no one home at the moment. It’s Friday night, so they may all be out on dates or working late at the library or whatever sorority girls do on weekends. We’ll stay here until someone returns and we can get information about the victim. Now that we have a name, I’ll send an officer to see if he can roust the registrar. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

I was still battling nausea, and the idea of collapsing on my sofa with a cup of tea was enough to make me giddy. I hadn’t liked Jean Hall. Then again, I thought with an explosion of frigid anger, my antipathetic opinion hadn’t given someone tacit permission to kill her She hadn’t deserved to be run down so brutally, so dispassionately.

It was not yet time for tea. “Listen, Peter,” I said, “all four of the girls were staying in a wing off the lounge. I don’t know which room was Jean’s, but I can tell with a quick look. Maybe you can find an address book or some correspondence that will indicate where her parents live. They should be notified as soon as possible.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said gloomily. “I’ll send for a campus cop to unlock the house for us. They’ve already made it clear that the alley is city property and in our jurisdiction, but they’ll assist us.”

“If no one’s in the house and it’s locked, she must have taken her key with her. Did someone check her pockets?”

“Earlier, for identification. Her pockets are empty, and as you heard while so charmingly eavesdropping, her purse hasn’t turned up yet. Campus security can be here in a minute or two.” He told me to wait where I was, then reentered the brightly lit arena of activity to confer with the medical examiner, the squad from the crime lab, and the medics.

A disgruntled campus policeman arrived with a key, and shortly thereafter, Peter and I entered the house. Jorgeson followed with a flashlight, which proved necessary when we found ourselves in a dark kitchen. Aluminum pans and bowls glinted dully from hooks along the ceiling, and stacks of plastic glasses reflected slivers of orange and blue. A vast refrigerator droned unsteadily.

I found a light switch, and led them through the dining room to the lounge, and after a moment’s consideration down a corridor replete with a blank bulletin board and tiers of mail cubicles, all empty. When Rebecca had given me the tour, she’d pointed out the hallway lined with four bedroom doors on one side, and on the opposing side a pink-tiled bathroom and a closet used by the custodial staff.

The first door was locked. I stepped back, and Jorgeson fiddled with a pick until we heard a ping. He opened the door and switched on the light. I knew it wasn’t a matter of breaking and entering, not with a pair of cops accompanying me, but I felt as guilty as a dieter with a doughnut as I went inside the room.

It wasn’t much larger than my office, and contained a narrow bed, a built-in closet, a dresser, and a desk cluttered with all the paraphernalia necessary to produce the flawless face of a Kappa Theta Eta. Clothes were piled on the bed, draped over a chair, and discarded on the floor Mixed among jeans and shorts were pink cashmere sweaters and pink silk blouses, lacy pink panties, a single fuzzy pink bedroom slipper, pink sweatpants, and a pink-and-white-striped umbrella.

I wasn’t surprised to see a stuffed cat on the bed, dozens of pink paper cats taped to the walls and around the mirror, and on the desk, a necklace with a silver cat charm. Beside it was a framed photograph of a group of girls positioned around a cat, all of them smiling brightly except for their hostage, who looked panicky.

“What’s with this cat thing?” Peter asked from the doorway, unwilling or possibly unable to encroach on this feline sanctuary.

“You really don’t want to know,” I said. “This must be Rebecca’s room. These are scripts, and the textbooks have to do with theater history.”

We went to the next room, which had a distressingly similar decor and a selection of psychology textbooks. On the bed was a My Beautiful Self manual and strips of paper that reminded me of paint sample cards. “Pippa’s room,” I said as we retreated.

While Jorgeson plied his magic on the third door, I related what little I knew about Rebecca and Pippa. We entered the room. The cat motif was nearly nonexistent, with only a single pink paper cat taped to the wall and nary a kitty on the pillow. The bed was made, the desk surface pristine, the floor bare, the lone photograph that of a middle-aged couple with squinty eyes and unsmiling mouths. The room had the austerity of a convent cell, and perhaps slightly less warmth.

“This is Debbie Anne’s room,” I said with a sigh. I picked up an envelope and noted the return address. The town was unfamiliar, but the state is riddled with towns that are no more than a few forlorn houses clumped around a post office. “She’s the one who’s not Kappa material, from all accounts.”

In the last room, the cats were back in full force on the bed, the mirror frame, the walls, and the back of the door, and even on the personal computer on the desk. There were dozens of photographs of Jean, each with a different boy wrapped around her and grinning drunkenly at the camera. Slogans on their T-shirts proclaimed the occasions to be such dignified affairs as Purple Cow Madness Night and Sin City. Jean had managed to keep at least some of her clothes in the closet, and her books were aligned on the shelf above the desk. She had a portable television on a plastic crate, presumably out of deference to her exalted position as house president, and an extensive collection of stuffed cats piled on the bed.

Peter and Jorgeson were beyond response by that time. They both looked so intensely uncomfortable that I felt sorry for them. Jorgeson glanced down the hallway as if he were anticipating an attack by a blustery pink coed or a rabid cat. I had no problem empathizing with their disquietude, having experienced it myself.

“This is Jean’s room,” I said patiently. “Do you want to look for her home address, or shall I do it for you?”

My offer was ignored. While I sat on the bed and watched Peter search through the drawers and Jorgeson paw through the closet, I mentally replayed my conversations with Jean. She would have made a fine lawyer, I thought as I remembered how deftly she’d maligned Debbie Anne with only a few facetiously concerned observations and a delicate sneer or two.

“Here’s an address book, Lieutenant.” Jorgeson held up a small leather book and flipped through the pages. “She didn’t write down her parents’ address or telephone number, but there’s a number for Aunt Mellie in Little Rock. You want me to find a telephone and try it?”

Peter nodded distractedly, his eyes darting from cat to cat and his forehead creased as if it had been raked by sharp claws. “I don’t get this,” he said under his breath. “I’d go crazy after ten minutes in this place. It’s so…

“Pink?” I suggested, wondering if he was so unsettled that he inadvertently might pass along a few official tidbits. We amateur sleuths must be ever vigilant to take advantage of any momentary weakness. “I didn’t know Jean well, but she was the one I’d have said was not a pink person. She had a brittleness about her, and certainly not an easygoing, pastel personality. Either I was mistaken in my judgment, or she’s gone to extremes to present herself in a particular light.” I paused delicately, then continued in a vague, musing voice, “It wasn’t a simple hit-and-run, was it? Whoever was driving made sure she was dead. I suppose we’ll find out who it was when you find out whose car it is.”

“Yeah,” Peter said as he studied the room as though it were a museum reproduction from an extraterrestrial culture. “This sort of thing usually involves a drunk driver who suspects he hit something, backs up for a better look, drives into the nearest tree, and flees on foot. He’ll turn himself in at the station in the morning, deeply repentant but nevertheless accompanied by his father’s attorney, and eventually be let off with a fat fine, probation, and enough community service to cause minor inconvenience. Even with a suspended license, he’ll be driving that same day and drinking that night.”

“Who reported the accident?”

“We got an anonymous call, maybe from the driver himself, who might not have been sure the girl was dead.”

I looked at Jean’s face in one of the photographs, but now saw it dappled with blood, the eyes glassy, the mouth crooked. “How could he not know he’d killed her?”

“It was dark, and he was drunk and frightened. It happens all too often on back roads and even on the better-lit highways. A guy has car trouble and starts walking along the shoulder to find help, or a drunk steps out in front of a speeding car.”

Jorgeson came into the room. “Aunt Mellie isn’t home, but we’ve got something on the car. It’s registered to James Wray of Bethel Hills, which is a little town in the bottom corner of the state.”

“As in Debbie Anne Wray,” I said. “The girl who occupies the room noticeably lacking Kappa spirit. She’s the one who was knocked down by a prowler several nights ago, or claimed she was.”

This was of interest, naturally, and I related the recent events, glossing over my reluctance to be drawn into a quagmire of cuteness. “I can’t remember the woman’s name,” I concluded, “but she’s the wife of the law school dean. She’s also some kind of alumna adviser, so I suppose she might have the names and addresses of the girls’ families.”

Peter sent Jorgeson to work on it, then gestured for me to follow him out of Jean’s room. “What can you tell me about the Wray girl? Do you have any theories why she’d want to hurt the victim-or where she might be at this moment?”

“Debbie Anne told me that Jean gave her a bad time, but I failed to spot any flicker of diabolical desire to seek revenge in the alley because of it. She’s a limp, impassive girl, more likely to sit in a corner and whimper than to do something violent.” I shuddered as once again Jean’s face forced its way into my mind, and I halted and leaned against the wall to steady myself. “As for her whereabouts, I doubt she’s out on a date. You might try the library if it hasn’t closed.”

“I’ll need a description.”

I was doing my best to paint a colorful picture of a girl less animated than the faded carpet in the hallway when we heard a scream from the front part of the house. Peter hurried past me, careened around the corner, and vanished. Having become somewhat desensitized to the Kappas’ screams, I trailed after him with more decorum and arrived in the lounge in time to see Winkie clutch her neck.

“Men are not allowed in the private rooms,” she gasped as her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor.