Poisoned Pins (3 page)

“He's going to paint the sorority house.” She grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table and stuffed them in her mouth as she flopped across a chair. “He works for the contractor, some guy named Ed Whitbred who's a real painter but was across town finishing another job. Mrs. Vanderson thought she was meeting Ed, but Arnie showed up, so she had to deal with him. Mrs. Vanderson's what Pippa calls the house corps president, which means she's in charge of the house maintenance and pays the bills and stuff. The house is going to be painted this summer so they can do better at rush in the fall. They had a real crummy pledge class this year because the Kappa Theta Eta house is the nappiest on campus, even worse than some of the fraternity houses. The pledges have to sleep on the third floor, and the roof leaks so badly they're afraid it's going to crash down on them someday.”

“Good detective work,” Peter drawled.

She gave him an offended frown. “I wasn't snooping around the way Mother does. I merely went over to the house to talk to Pippa about my training. I may have gotten lost on my way to her room, but that's hardly my fault if all the halls look exactly the same.”

“You were prowling around the sorority house?” I said, appalled. “Don't you realize that's trespassing?”

“It is not, and it doesn't matter, anyway. There are only four girls living in the house this summer, along with the housemother and her cat. During the regular year, there are over sixty girls in the house and visitors all the time.”

Peter had been grinning, but he grew stern. “You really shouldn't wander around the sorority house, Caron. There're always a lot of thefts in the houses, and an unauthorized person is likely to be considered a suspect. I've seen the data from the campus security force; the number of reported thefts has doubled in the last five years. You don't want to find yourself accused of stealing.”

“Me?” she said, now the epitome of innocence.
“How could anybody accuse me of theft? I don't have a dollar to my name, and Mother seems to think it's perfectly fine for me to wear shoes with holes, tatty old sweaters, clothes from the Salvation Army—”

“Go away,” I said.

“But I'm going to earn money, anyway,” she continued. “Pippa says she'll let me use her kit until I can afford my own. All I have to do is line up eight appointments and then I'll have more than enough money. Once I have the kit, I can train all my friends and really start making scads and scads of money. I'd better make some calls.” She sauntered down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door.

Peter wanted to talk about the cabin. I didn't, and after a few more efforts on his part, he left. He didn't exactly stalk down the stairs, but I heard every last footstep and the door slammed with unnecessary vigor.

Going away with him was too much like a honeymoon, I thought as I tidied up the living room and took our glasses to the kitchen. My territory was well defined, and I preferred it to be so. I rarely went to his house, and never stayed the night, even when it required a lonely and often chilly drive to my apartment.

I turned off the lights and went to my bedroom. Access to my bed was by invitation only; the concept of anyone assuming a proprietary interest in one of the pillows was disturbing. I'd tried that with a husband, and although the marriage had not resulted in shackles and submission, I felt no need to take on the responsibility of a relationship, to make compromises—especially when the compromises tended to resemble total capitulations.

Then again, I reminded myself as I studied the newest set of wrinkles while I brushed my teeth, Caron was within a few months of turning sixteen, which meant I was in the same proximity to forty. I claimed to be self-sufficient, but I'd wasted the day wondering how to pay the rent all summer and I had to find a way to get in new stock for the fall semester. A few publishers had threatened to cut off my credit; others were
making inelegant remarks about delinquent payments. The roof leaked and the cockroaches were a noticeable addition to the office decor. There were unpaid bills piled in the kitchen. In a few years Caron would have to be sent to college, preferably in a remote state.

Peter earned a decent salary as a lieutenant in the Farberville CID, and there was some family money that, kept him expensively dressed right down to his Italian shoes. He'd made it clear that he wanted to get married, and would assume the burden of Caron's education and my decline into old age (slated to begin within a matter of months). The Book Depot could become my hobby rather than my source of incipient ulcers.

I was musing over the heretofore hidden mercenary aspects of my personality when I heard a terrified scream.

“What was that?” shrieked Caron as we bumped into each other in the hall. Although I was foaming at the mouth, I was still dressed; she'd pulled on her shirt and was fumbling with shorts.

Having envisioned her with blood spurting from a major artery, I slumped against the wall and waited until the gruesome image faded. “It was a scream, and it sounded as if it came from directly below my bedroom window. I looked, but I couldn't see anybody. We'd better call 911.”

“Yeah, do that.” She veered around me and headed for the living room.

I lunged and managed to catch her shoulder before she could rush into the welcoming arms of the neighborhood ax murderer. “You wait here. I'm going to make the call, and then we'll try to see something from my window.” I went into the kitchen, but as I picked up the receiver to punch the appropriate digits. I heard the front door open and close. Caron was going to find Her Beautiful Self grounded until school started, I thought, torn between anger and fear.

When the dispatcher answered, I tersely described the situation and was informed that the grounds of the sorority house were in the campus police department's jurisdiction.

“Can't you notify them?”

“We're only allowed to respond to emergencies within our jurisdiction. I can give you the proper number, ma'am.”

I was back to envisioning Caron drenched in blood,
so I eschewed further debate, noted the number, and dialed it with an uncooperative finger. “Someone screamed at the Kappa Theta Eta house,” I announced, then hung up in the middle of a demand for further details, righteously assuring myself I had none. I hurried downstairs and out to the porch. Caron had vanished. The street was dark and still, as was the sidewalk. The ground floor of the sorority house was lit up as if in anticipation of a Shriners' convention, however, so I cut across the adjoining yards, growling Caron's name with every step, and went to the front door.

It was ajar, and from within I heard hiccupy sobs interspersed with murmurs and silky assurances that “she” was safe. I wasn't sure if “she” was the screamer or Caron, but it seemed likely that I'd found the origins of the crisis, whatever it was. I went inside and paused in a large reception room with pink flocked wallpaper, a parquet floor, a small desk with a telephone and a solitary plastic rose in a bud vase, and innumerable group photographs of young women endowed with more than their fair share of glistening white teeth and moist pink gums.

The voices were coming from a room to the left of a staircase. Unlike Caron, I was not pleased with the opportunity to trespass in the Kappa Theta Eta house, but I continued in the direction of the voices and found myself in a lounge with several groupings of shabby furniture.

The most central one was occupied by a huddle of women—and by Caron Malloy, who was soaking up the potential drama with a facade of sympathy. She looked dismayed by my entrance, but managed to say, “There was a prowler, but he's gone now.”

I pointed at her. “Go outside and wait for the police. They should be here any minute, but they won't know to come in here.” She hesitated, then realized that anything short of prompt obedience would result in a lengthy sentence that precluded a car, a telephone, and everything else near and dear to her. Once she was
gone, I approached the occupied sofa and tried to sort out the players. Without a scorecard.

A girl was sprawled in the middle, her face hidden by her hands and her shoulders twitching. The sobbing, although somewhat tempered, was still audible. Three young women surrounded her, all patting her shoulders, stroking her head, and assuring her that she was safe.

A much older woman, dressed in a robe and slippers and carrying a glass of water, came into the room. She halted as she spotted me, her forehead creased harshly and her lips puckered with confusion. “You . . . you look familiar, but I can't quite place you,” she said. “I know I've seen you somewhere. I'm so sorry that I don't remember your name, dear,”

“I'm Claire Malloy. I live next door, so it's probable you've seen me walking by the house. Several minutes ago I heard someone scream. I've already called the police. They ought to be here soon.”

“The police?” She gave the glass to one of the girls and came across the room. She was significantly less than five feet tall, with frizzy gray hair and a smooth, pale complexion that belied her age only with a webbing of fine wrinkles around her eyes and the slackness beneath her chin. I would not have been surprised to learn she'd been born somewhere over the rainbow.

She continued, her voice still high and uncertain, “I'm Martha Winklebury, but the girls call me Winkie. I'm the Kappa Theta Eta housemother. It's so very nice to meet you, Mrs. Malloy; you must stop in for iced tea and cookies some afternoon. But as for now, I'm afraid I don't understand why you called the police. As I'm sure all of us can see, the girl is simply upset.”

“She screamed,” I said evenly. “I'm accustomed to a certain amount of noise from this place, but this went beyond girlish squeals and shrieks. What happened?”

“It's quite silly. Debbie Anne was coming in from the library and thought she saw a prowler in the shrubbery. I've told the girls again and again not to cut through the side yard when it's dark, but to stay on the
sidewalk where there's plenty of light, even if it means going an extra few feet. Her imagination ran away with her.”

“If it did, it ran into me and knocked me down,” said the accused from the middle of the sofa. Despite her splotchy, tear-streaked face and tremulous voice, I recognized her as the girl who'd tried to peddle used textbooks at my store. She blinked as she realized who I was, but looked down at her tightly clenched hands and let out a groan punctuated with a loud hiccup.

“Couldn't it have been a fraternity boy?” the housemother asked. “Those dreadful Betas are forever trampling down our grass on their way to the bars on Thurber Street. I've complained numerous times to their housemother, but she cannot control them. They . . .”

She dribbled into silence as two uniformed officers came into the room. Neither looked old enough to be a policeman, but they were burly and armed—and therefore exactly what I'd ordered.

“I'm Officer Terrance,” one of them said, “and this is Officer Michaels. What's going on?”

Despite her shortness that put her at a disadvantage of more than a foot, Winkie managed to peer down her nose at them, although with a slightly cross-eyed effect. “Oh my goodness, men are not allowed in the back of the house. If you'll come with me to the living room, I'll explain what happened so you can be on your way.”

“Did you make the call, ma'am?” asked Officer Terrance. His partner seemed to prefer to enjoy the view of nubile young bodies, two of them clad only in skimpy gowns.

“I made the call,” I said, wiggling my fingers, “and the girl on the sofa is the one who screamed.”

“Her name's Debbie Anne Wray,” Winkie said with a sputtery sigh. “This has been blown entirely out of proportion, but I suppose we'd better get it settled so the girls can go on to bed. All four of them are carrying full schedules this summer. Come along, Debbie
Anne, and do stop that sniveling. Kappas do not snivel.” She went out of the room. Debbie Anne trailed behind her, sniveling more quietly but with no appreciable lessening of drippage from her raw red nose.

Officer Terrance looked at me. I shrugged and said, “All I know is that I heard a scream about five minutes ago. I called the emergency number, then came over here to”—I saw no reason to indict Caron—”find out what happened. I didn't see anybody in the yard or running down the sidewalk. No cars in the street.”

Terrance scratched his chin while he tried to grasp what he must have felt were the unspoken complexities in my story. He apparently had no success, in that he said, “You'd better wait here until we've questioned the girl.”

I considered my chances and realized they were naught. “Okay, but be quick about it, please. All I did was my civic duty, and I'd like to go back to bed before dawn.”

“Wouldn't we all?” he said as he left the room. Officer Michaels reluctantly followed him.

The three girls on the sofa were regarding me with dark suspicion, if not outright alarm. After a muted conference, the two in gowns left through a doorway and the third stood up and approached me with an out-stretched hand. She had dark hair cut in a short wedge, flawless if uninspired features, a trim body marred only by overly broad shoulders, and the bright appraisal of a lioness contemplating a crippled eland. Her pale pink sweatsuit had not come from a discount house; her expensive athletic shoes had never so much as walked through the doorway of one.

On her chest was a glittery pin adorned with tiny chains that led to smaller glittery pins. For a brief, stunned moment, I thought it was meant to be symbolic of a skull and crossbones, but as she came nearer, I realized it was nothing more sinister than her sorority pin. I also realized it was much too late to be gadding about the neighborhood.

“I'm Jean Hall, Ms. Malloy,” she said as she shook
my hand with the precise degree of firmness for the occasion. “I was the house committee president last year, and I'd like to welcome you to Kappa Theta Eta, even though this is not how we prefer to have an open house.” She gave me a pearly smile that went no deeper than the sheen of makeup on her face. “It seems as though we'll be up for a while. Please sit down and make yourself at home. May we offer you coffee or tea?”