Poisoned Pins (18 page)

“Mrs. Malloy,” I heard Terrance say with what I felt was inadequate surprise. “Do you need medical attention?”

“No, I'll be fine in a minute.” I opened one eye to a slit. There on the woman's name tag was the dreaded word: Pipkin. It was preceded by a less specific M, as in Marion or Melinda or Mockery. There had to be a way to force myself into unconsciousness, I thought as I closed the eye and concentrated on the rough bark cutting into my back. My head ached dully, but I knew within the hour it would feel like the beach during a hurricane. My hand still throbbed where the cat had bitten it. I was not enamored of this latest quaint coincidence.

“She muttered something about the man in the moon,” my traitorous savior was saying in a low voice. “I caught a glimpse of an older guy heading past the agri building. He was walking briskly, not running.”

Pippa squeezed my knee. “Here's your purse, Mrs. Malloy. I gathered up all your things for you. Do you want to try and stand up now? I know more about the psychological aspects of shock than the physical, but your color's come back.” She paused, then with what I suspected was a tactful dimple, added, “You really shouldn't wear navy.”

That did it. I opened my eyes, and from under a much lowered brow, glowered at her. “I do not need a Beautiful Self analysis to be assaulted in my proper palette!” I brushed off her hand and made it to my feet. “I can describe the man, Officer Terrance. This is the first time I've been this close, and I only had a brief moment before he knocked me down, but I know what I saw.”

“I'm Officer Pipkin,” the woman said with professional compassion that didn't fool me. “We'd appreciate it if you'd accompany us to the office, and on the way we can swing by the infirmary to let them check you or give you an aspirin.”

“Thank you for your solicitousness, Officer Pipkin,” I said. I touched the lump on the back of my head and
wished I hadn't. “The skin's not broken, and I have ample medication at home. I'd prefer to get this over as quickly as possible.”

Officer Terrance cleared his throat. “You said this is the first time you'd been so close. Does this mean you've seen this man before—say, on the third floor of the Kappa Theta Eta house?”

“We can discuss it at your office,” I said firmly.

Pippa patted my arm. “Oh, Winkie told us how you freaked out when you saw a reflection in the window. She said you called the police to report we had a prowler, when it was nothing more than the man in the moon! Don't you think that's too priceless?”

The campus police department was housed in a relatively new metal building on the far side of the football stadium. Students grumbled as they stood in line to pay traffic tickets at a counter, and others sat dispiritedly on a bench in the hallway. Uniformed officers moved inside a glass-walled room filled with electronic equipment. Unlike the local jail, there was nothing in the air here more sinister than the stateness of a modern office building with sealed windows.

Officer Terrance escorted me to a conference room decorated with maps of the campus and posters that admonished us not to overindulge. Officer Pipkin joined us with a tray holding mugs of coffee, packets of sugar, and a jar of powdered pseudo-cream.

While she busied herself playing hostess, I took a harder look at her, strictly out of curiosity. She appeared to be no more than thirty years old, with short dark hair, a pleasant face, a trim body, and the implicit strength and agility of a gymnast. She'd spoken only a few words while we drove to the department, but her voice held no trace of a regional accent. I had not yet decided if it had held an edge of amusement.

“Now then, Ms. Malloy,” she said as she placed a clipboard on the table, “could you please tell us what happened?”

Officer Terrance glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair. “Dammit, I nearly forgot that I have to pick up my wife's sister at the airport. Can you handle this on your own, Officer Pipkin?”

“I'll muddle through, Officer Terrance.” She waited
until he was gone, then gave me a quirky grin. “All by my little lonesome, too. I've been on the force three years longer than he has, and could have been his baby-sitter when he was in disposable diapers. I'm a second-degree black belt in karate, have better scores on the firing range, and am working on a master's degree in personnel management. It's not impossible to understand why some women become cloistered nuns, you know?”

“I know,” I said, determined to maintain a civil distance between us. This could have been a ruse. For all I knew, she was wearing a concealed microphone and Lieutenant Rosen of the Farberville CID was in the adjoining room, peering through a peephole and smirking as he eavesdropped. “I'd like to get this over with, if you don't mind. My head's beginning to ache. I came around the corner of the library, and—”

“Why were you on the campus, Ms. Malloy?”

Name, rank, and serial number, I told myself stiffly. “It was such a lovely afternoon that I thought I'd go over to the senior walk and read the names, admire the flowers, toss a few coins in the fountain in front of the student union. I came around the corner, admittedly lost in reverie, and crashed into that man. Perhaps he reacted reflexively, and when he realized what he'd done, panicked and fled.”

She held a pen in her hand, but she was not scribbling frantically. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“About five foot seven, maybe shorter, small pale eyes, very thin blond hair that gives him the illusion of baldness, and a distinctively round, white face. Anywhere from fifty to seventy years old, I'm afraid. That type of babyish face is hard to read.”

“Wearing . . . ?” she murmured, now at least taking notes.

I winced as I tried to remember. “Sorry, I didn't notice. This encounter lasted only two or three seconds, and then I was slumped against the tree while the fireworks and the sirens went off. I didn't see anything for a while.”

She gave me a disturbingly acute look. “And have you ever seen this man before, Ms. Malloy? Please, take your time. If you'd like, I can see if anyone has aspirin.”

“I have aspirin in my purse.” I wasn't sure how to answer her question, and opted to consider it while I dug through my purse for the little metal box. My fingers finally encountered it, but there was something missing, something I was accustomed to touching, to hear jingling. I put the aspirin box on the table and said, “Could I please have a cup of water?”

As soon as she was gone, I opened my purse and searched again for my key ring. I'd walked to the Book Depot, rather than driving, and when I returned home to tend to my cat bite, I'd assumed that Caron had left our front door unlocked. But I had unlocked the store, which meant I'd had the key ring in my purse. And had not removed it.

Officer Pipkin returned with the water. “You seem a little dazed, Ms. Malloy. Please let me take you to the infirmary, so they can make sure you didn't suffer a mild concussion, and then I'll drive you home. Tomorrow, or whenever you feel up to it, I'd like to ask a few more questions, and let you look at some mug shots at the Farberville Police Department.”

I swallowed two aspirin with a sip of water. “I don't want to go to the infirmary, but I would prefer to put this off for a day or two and go home to take a nap. Why don't I call you when I'm ready to continue this? Maybe my memory will have improved.”

“Let's hope so,” she said mildly.

Once we were in the car, I told her my address and then said, merely to make conversation, “How long have you been a detective?”

“Since the report of your assault came in. I'm usually assigned to public relations, but the grown-ups were all responding to other calls, and poor Officer Terrance was stuck with me.” She braked at a crosswalk and waited as the students ambled by. “Actually, I'm on a joint task force with the local police department.
We're trying to find ways to cut down on property theft. During the last academic year, over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of property was stolen on the campus. We recovered less than a third of it, but that's close to the national average.”

This wasn't precisely the subject I'd introduced, but it was preferable to a discussion of my assailant. “Someone mentioned there'd been thefts in the dorms and Greek houses. I can understand how a kid leaves his door unlocked, thus inviting someone within the residence to sneak inside and grab whatever's on the dresser. But how could someone steal a large, bulky computer from a busy office on the campus?”

“We've had reports on computers, VCRs, speakers that were screwed to the walls, overhead projectors, photocopy machines—you name it. The problem is apathy. Someone strolls into, say, the biology department, announces that Professor Smith said to take the computer to the laboratory on the third floor, and carries it out the door. Professor Smith thinks a colleague must have borrowed it, and merrily goes away on his sabbatical for three months. In the next building, someone says he's from the repair service, flashes a form, and takes the photocopier. Not one grad student or secretary bothers to demand credentials, and the polite student who holds the door for the thief is too worried about his thesis to look at anyone's face. Office and classroom doors are left unlocked at night. The storage building for the landscaping crew is in a lonely corner of the campus.”

“How can you stop it?” I asked.

She parked in front of my duplex. “We can't, and it costs the taxpayers a lot of money to replace all these electronic toys. While we're on the topic, I saw a report that might interest you, Ms. Malloy. A clerk at a boutique at the mall recognized Debbie Anne Wray's face on the news and called us. Several months ago Debbie Anne went into the store and requested a refund on an expensive wool jacket. Although she didn't
have a sales receipt, the tags were still on the coat and it hadn't been worn. Because the store makes every effort to court business from the coeds, it has a liberal return policy. The clerk was counting out the money when the manager returned from lunch and noticed it was a brand not carried there. When he said as much, Debbie Anne burst into tears and ran out of the store, leaving the coat behind. It was so odd that he and the clerk remembered her face.”

“Why would you think this would interest me, Officer Pipkin?”

“Just a hunch,” she said as she shifted gears. “I'd better get back for a meeting, Ms. Malloy. Please call me when you feel better.”

Debbie Anne's peculiar behavior would have to wait. I sat down on the porch steps and made sure my key ring was not hidden somewhere in the murkiest corner of my purse. My purse had been in my presence since I'd left my duplex in the morning. When Katie bit me, I'd dropped it, but it hadn't burst open. Therefore, I thought with a sigh worthy of my daughter at her pinnacle of martyrdom, the key ring must have fallen out of my purse when I was attacked by my man in the moon. Pippa had gathered up the contents and replaced them, but had overlooked the key ring under a leaf or in a clump of grass.

Well-organized people not only have spare keys, they also put tags on them and know exactly where they keep them. Others of us hazily recall the existence of spare keys, likely to be in a kitchen drawer crammed with junk . . . or in a little box along with foreign coins and insufficient postage stamps . . . or in a shoebox with expired coupons and postcards from unfamiliar people who'd wished we were there. I knew about well-organized people, having once been married to a man who sent in warranty cards, filed receipts, won arguments with the bank, and watched, in precise chronological order, every episode of
Upstairs, Downstairs.
He empathized with the latter group who made the household run smoothly and efficiently,
while scorning those dithery sorts who were forever misplacing their parasols and white kid gloves.

I went across the street and trudged toward the library, promising to abandon my slothful ways if I found my keys. Classes seemed to be over for the day; only a few students were sitting on benches outside the library or waiting for the stoplight to change across from the student union. It was not a dark and stormy night, however, and I was more concerned about my keys than about potential muggers in the bushes.

They were nowhere in the grass around the tree. I searched methodically in a fifteen-foot radius, then leaned against the trunk and considered every action I'd taken since unlocking the front door of the Book Depot at nine o'clock. I had not removed my keys from my purse, and it had been in my possession—with the exception of the few minutes when it had been propelled out of my hands. Along with sweet dimples, indignant dimples, and enthusiastic dimples, it seemed possible that Pippa had among her repertoire a few larcenous ones. I glumly contemplated the ramifications of not having a car key, a house key, a bookstore key, or any of the other odd keys that I kept religiously, year after year, in case I ever remembered what they fit.

Clearly, I needed to have a word with Pippa, and a round of fisticuffs if necessary. My reluctant relationship with the Kappa Theta Etas had caused nothing but a series of headaches, of both the literal and figurative variety. I'd been bitten twice, thrown in jail, hurled into a tree, and exposed to several bizarre subcultures that had thus far existed quite successfully without any intervention—or interest—on my part. My resolution to defend Debbie Anne to the bitter end was melting away like a scoop of ice cream.

I continued to allow it to melt for about three steps, faltered, and veered toward the sidewalk that went past the agri building. My assailant was not likely to be dallying
behind the shrubs, but I hadn't done noticeably well in predicting his behavior to date. I circled the building, staunchly ignored a pair of coeds who giggled at me, and headed in the direction he'd purportedly taken.

The journalism building appeared deserted, as did a squatty structure that I thought housed philosophy and other cerebral, and therefore nonmarketable, majors. Secretaries were now leaving for the day, replaced by the custodial staff, a few humorless students, and a rare faculty member with a bulgy briefcase and the obligatory leather patches on his or her elbows.