by Joan Hess
Farberville High School had not closed its doors to commemorate the death of a custodian. During the morning announcements, Miss Don assigned a few terse words to the tragic loss of an employee, warned the students not to speak with reporters, and went right on to the homecoming festivities-the very mention of which gave me goose bumps. I went right on to the lounge.
There were traces of fingerprint powder on the table and a lingering aroma that someone had attempted to overpower with pine-scented air freshener. I felt as if I’d been teleported to Maine. I contemplated a search for the other lounge, which to my knowledge was not yet a breeding ground for corpses, then reminded myself that I would learn nothing there. I waded through the pine cones and poured myself a cup of coffee.
Paula Hart came into the lounge. After a warm smile of greeting, she started for the ladies room, then stopped and shook her head ruefully. “I can’t do it,” she said with a small, deprecatory laugh. “I intended to be quite sensible about it, since the other faculty lounge is so far. But I can’t make myself go in there-not after what happened to poor Pitts.”
“You’re the only person who’s apt to be distressed by Pitts’s death,” I said. “Everyone else will celebrate-in a decorous manner, of course.
“He was a sad little man. He did so want to be a part of the staff, but he simply did not fit in with us. No education, a certain lack of-of physical fastidiousness, an inclination to grovel that encouraged certain people to ridicule him without mercy. All those rumors about him, based on student gossip, which can be fanciful. Heaven knows they come up with some wild ideas at times. The others were ready to lynch him, but I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I suppose I felt sorry for him.”
It occurred to me that she and her coach had entered the lounge after the discussion of Pitts’s peepery. I asked her if she knew about the spy hole in the ladies room.
“Evelyn told me. I wish I knew how long the hole had been there. I’d like to think he wasn’t watching me adjust my panty hose every morning, but we’ll never find out.” She made a face. “It is awful, isn’t it? Being spied on through a nasty hole in the wall
“He was also privy to conversations when the door was open, I told her, making the same face but with a more mature set of wrinkles. “I guess he overheard quite a lot of personal conversations.”
She fluttered a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I don’t think he could hear anything, do you? Even with the door open, it’s a thick wall and there’s always noise in the halls.”
“Let’s test the hypothesis,” I said, enamored of the idea of yet another Nobel-level experiment, this time in acoustics. I’ll go in his closet and put my ear to the wall. You take the tape off the hole, then go into the lounge and talk. We’ll find out if he could have heard anything.”
“What shall I say?”
“Anything. Your name and address. The alphabet.”
She looked doubtful, but she stayed in the middle of the room. I went around the corner and through the storage room to the private sanctum. There were signs the police had examined the room, and I wondered if’ they’d found the alleged stash of illegal substances. I wryly noted a collection of empty whiskey bottles. Pitts would have done better to stick with his own brand.
I located the hole and put my ear to it, feeling rather sleazy even though I was conducting research for a good cause. I heard Paula chanting the alphabet as if she were inches away. Acoustical miracles, I supposed. Paula broke off in the middle of
“Hi, Jerry,” she said brightly.
“Why are you in the middle of the room reciting the alphabet?” he asked, not unreasonably.
I could almost hear the flutter of her hands. Our Miss Hart was not, to her credit, an accomplished liar, but it seemed she couldn’t bring herself to expose me. Or maybe the truth was too silly for her true love to be saddled with.
“For a typing test,” she gasped. “Third period. I’m going to time them on the alphabet.”
“And you’re not sure you remember it?” He chuckled at her, then cut off her flutters with what I presumed was a kiss. “Listen, my darling, I’ve got to find that blasted transcript before the police do. No, don’t interrupt, please. If the police stumble onto it, they’ll think I had a motive to murder Weiss. Honey, let me finish. I doubt it’s in the regular file; Weiss wanted to dangle it over my head like a damned sword before he made it public. Maybe it’s hidden in his-what?”
There was a long silence, punctuated by earnest whispers and a low growl. The door of the ladies room slammed shut, thus leaving the location of the mysterious transcript unspecified and my left eardrum aquiver in tympanic shock. I felt fairly sure Jerry wasn’t going to offer further details, no matter how nicely I asked.
I was still listening to chimes in my head when I heard a noise through the hole. I waited a few minutes, then leaned against the wall once more, prepared to sacrifice scrupulosity and dignity in exchange for information. A toilet flushed, water ran in the sink, and the door was opened-and left ajar. Someone more considerate than the coach was in the lounge. Footsteps, the clink of the coffee pot against a mug, more footsteps. I decided the odds on a killer admitting all, particularly to a room devoid of an audience, were nil to none, and I was on the verge of abandoning my post when someone laughed.
“How’s your student teacher faring in the face of all this mayhem?” Sherwood said. “is she more non corn pas menus than usual?”
“I suspect she’ll flee back to the college to find another major.” Evelyn sounded as if such flight held appeal. “The rest of us will end up with delirium treinens, complete with hallucinations and crazy ideas that this place isn’t really a temporary stop on the way to the morgue. Policemen underfoot, newsmen in the parking lot, and Bernice fort in command. Oh, Sherwood, I can’t believe anyone would murder Herbert Weiss, or even pitiful Pius. Maybe I am losing my mind.”
“Surely you are not devastated by the loss of our factotum, our worthless dogsbody? We’ll get a replacement, and we’ll be better off for it, as will the building and the ignoble savages. By the way, I have arrived at a startling insight, Evelyn-one that warrants serious cogitation. It involves Pitts’s vile habit of eavesdropping through that little hole. It must have been the precise size to accommodate his mind-which contradicted the tenet that natura abhorret vacuum.
I did not take it personally.
“What do you mean, Sherwood?” said Evelyn. “And get to the point without any incomprehensible asides, please. The first-period bell is going to ring any minute.”
“it seems to me that certain information conveyed in confidence wormed its way upstairs to the domain of our resident Zeus. it has now been demonstrated that the walls have ears- perhaps they also have mouths.”
“I understand your Latin better. What, Sherwood?”
“Among his other virtues, Pitts must have been a snitch. You heard Weiss’s crack about the library, Evelyn, and only you and I knew about that matter. How else could he have learned of that absurd accusation, unless Pitts overheard our conversation and tattled to his boss?”
I willed him to explain. He didn’t.
“That may be,” Evelyn said, “but it’s irrelevant now. Weiss and Pitts are both dead, so it doesn’t matter what either of them heard. It’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?”
“Mutatis mutandis, a change for the better. May I presume my secret is safe with you. Evelyn?” There was a pause during which I prayed for a brief reiteration of said secret. There wasn’t. “Ah, halls swell with the undeodorized.”
good, I knew I could trust you. We’d better retreat before the A door closed. I rubbed my ear as I tried to make sense of the tidbits I’d heard. I did understand why Pius eavesdropped; the conversations were entertaining and provocative, if not lucid. All I had to do was determine the meaning and what bearing, if any, these secrets had on two cases of murder. A transcript and an accusation about a library. Was either worthy of murder?
The bell jangled. I realized i
t was time for the first period and made my way through the outer room. I opened the door-and crashed into Sherwood Timmons.
“My goodness,” he said, tugging at his goatee, “what have we here? Have I caught you in flagrante delicto, Claire?”
“You have caught me in the hall-and on my way to meet my first-period class. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Sherwood, I must-”
“I fear I must insist you explain your presence in Mr. Pitts’s closet. Were you seeking clues, or listening to your elders through a convenient hole in the wall?”
“Don’t be absurd. I simply wanted to take a look around, to see if the police overlooked anything of importance.”
“Overlooked-or overheard?” He moved forward until I could smell the wintergreen of his breath. “I had thought better of you, held you in the highest esteem, idolized your famed deductive prowess. Now I wonder if my Athena is but a mortal, as flawed as the rest of us.”
“I am indeed flawed, but my vices do not include tardiness. It’s first period, Sherwood, and I must meet my class.”
“We shall meet again,” he said, bowing slightly.
He stepped back and I hurried away, as pink as a small child caught in the vicinity of a forbidden cookie jar. A misdemeanor, but still embarrassing. I survived the first two classes by debating whether to tell Peter what I’d heard-or overheard, anyway. It was moot. On the one hand, he would be gratified that I cooperated, for once. On the other, he would not be gratified that I was still investigating. In mystery novels, the amateur sleuths are not hindered as they sniff around for clues and analyze casual remarks for Freudian slips. The police share all the evidence and are unflaggingly grateful for what assistance they receive.
I concluded that Peter needed to read more fiction, after which I might consider cooperating with him.
The second-period class wandered away, and I went to the lounge to ponder the puzzle. I was pondering away when Evelyn came in.
“What a nightmare,” she said once we were settled cozily over coffee. “Especially for you, since you found the body. Why were you in the building yesterday afternoon, Claire? Did you really come back for the yearbook layouts?”
The speed with which gossip spread through the school was astounding, but I was beginning to get used to it. I told her about riffling the files for Mrs. Platchett’s and Mae Bagby’s addresses, and the reason for doing so. And the subsequent failure to find Miss Parchester at either residence. I did not tell her that I had also stained my jeans with peach juice, and allowed Peter to prove his manhood with a hammer.
“Poor Emily,” she sighed. “She is so unpredictable, and I hope she doesn’t do anything rash in the name of freedom of the press. It’s her guiding force in life; she’ll defend it to the death, murmuring about the Judge all the while.”
“To the death?”
“No, that was hyperbole. But she is devoted to the cause, which resulted in a lot of rumbling about the Falcon Crier. There were some stories that were outrageous, filled with misinformation, adolescent ravings, and controversial stands on taboo subjects. I know Weiss bawled Emily out on several occasions, but she refused to censor anything her apprentice reporters wrote.”
“Do you think this Miss Demeanor nonsense has anything to do with the murders? Most of it was drivel, but the business about the Xanadu Motel was different.” I chewed on my lip, trying to recall a snippet of conversation that seemed as if it might have meant something. It remained steadfastly out of reach, like a mosquito bite in the middle of one’s back.
Evelyn was staring at the wall. “it doesn’t have anything to do with what’s happened in the last week, Claire. I can’t explain, but it really is irrelevant.”
“Why can’t you explain?”
“It was just a tacky little attempt on someone s part to stir up trouble,” she said. “Once the newspaper was halted, so was the smear campaign. There’s no point in worrying about it now.”
I chewed off the rest of my lipstick, then said, “It was blackmail, wasn’t it? You’ve got to tell me what it meant, Evelyn. It could be important, and I must know who was blackmailing whom-and why.” When she shook her head and looked away, I took the obvious shot. “Do you and Sherwood visit the Xanadu on a regular basis?”
“I’m single, and so is he. We both live alone, so we would hardly pay for a sleazy motel room for an afternoon romp, would we? And even if we did, it wouldn’t be much of a crime. A scandal, perhaps, but not a very big one in this day.”
“Then who?” I demanded, forcing myself not to grab her by the shoulders and shake it out of her. I liked her, although her recalcitrance was straining the friendship. Caron evokes the same emotion in me.
“I can’t tell you. You’ll have to trust me when I say that it has no connection to Weiss’s murder, it would make no sense whatsoever, and letting the gossip spread is unconscionable.”
I let it go for the moment, although I wasn’t prepared to accept her word. “Then let me ask you something else. What did you think about Weiss’s comment in the teachers’ meeting about Jerry’s transcript? Is it possible that he falsified it, that he didn’t really graduate and doesn’t have a degree?”
“I don’t see how,” Evelyn said. “He has to have state certification to be employed as a coach and teacher, and the district office keeps the necessary forms on file. The state board of teacher certification grinds exceedingly slowly, but it does grind and cannot be avoided. I just thought Weiss was needling our golden boy, most likely out of petty jealousy.”
“He did needle him well. I’d like to get a peek at the personnel files, though. There has to be something peculiar about Jerry’s transcripts; he stormed out of the meeting and said some harsh things about Weiss afterward.”
“Did he?” She studied me as if I had admitted poisoning the city water supply, then went into the ladies room and locked the door.
The bell rang (it was beginning to regulate my life) and the other faculty members appeared shortly for what proved to be a very restrained lunch period. Mrs. Platchett and Miss Bagby both gave me inquiring looks. I shrugged and shook my head to the unspoken questions. Ignoring me, Jerry sulked his way through a sandwich and left, despite Paula’s unhappy sighs. Sherwood winked, but I managed to avoid an unseemly reaction; he did possess a key and I a healthy curiosity about the personnel files. Not to mention the journalism books, which I’d almost forgotten.
I retreated to the journalism room for fourth period. When Caron sauntered in, I tossed the roster to Bambi and beckoned for Caron to join me in the darkroom.
“Can you go to Miss Parchester’s neighborhood after school?” I asked her. “I doubt she’ll show up, but I don’t want her to fall into the sticky arms of the law if she does.”
“I wasted an entire afternoon there yesterday, Mother. it was Utterly Boring, and I see no point in putting myself through that ordeal again. Besides, Inez and I have to work on the Homecoming float.”
“What Homecoming float? Is there to be a parade?”
“I was not referring to coke and ice cream,” she sniffed. “The parade is Friday afternoon at three o’clock, and each class has to enter a float. The freshman entry is ‘Broast the Bantams.’ It’s dumb, but no one could come up with anything remotely clever. We’re working on it, stuffing crepe paper in chicken wire and that sort of thing, in Rhonda Maguire’s garage.
“A float is not as important as Miss Parchester,” I began in a sternly maternal voice. I realized that Caron was about to insist that it certainly was, if not a good deal more so. “All right, go work on the float. But if Miss Parchester is arrested for murder, you will not be writing the Miss Demeanor column next week. Or next year, or eons down the road when you’re a senior. Keep that in mind while you’re ankle-deep in crepe paper.
I left her to mull over her thwarted career and sat down at the desk to mull over my thwarted scheme. And my next move. Bambi McQueen approached, a sly look on her face. “If you’ll write me a blue slip, I can take the absentee list to
the office now, Mrs. Malloy. It’s supposed to be turned in right after the beginning of class. Miss Dort doesn’t like for it to be late.”
“By all means,” I said. I opened the desk drawer and took out a pad of blue slips. I noticed a key among the pencil stubs, a rusty thing with a tag marked “mailbox-office.” “Does this open the Miss Demeanor box?” I asked with a flicker of interest.
Baxnbi said she thought it did, and I handed it to her with instructions to bring the contents of the box back with her. She waited until she had her trusty blue slip in pocket, then bounced away with a smug expression. Her expression was glum when she returned, however, and I was prepared for the announcement that the box was empty.
Once school was over, I walked slowly to the parking lot, not sure where to go, or what to do when I got there. Miss Parchester was not likely to appear at her apartment, and I had no theories about where else to search for her. A policeman of certain familiarity hailed me before I could reach a decision and beat a retreat.
“I have a message for Miss Parchester,” said Peter. He leaned against my car, his arms folded and his smile deceptively bland. “Good news, actually.”
“I’ll be happy to pass it along when I see her,” I said, miffed that he would think I was hiding her. Did he think I had her stashed in the trunk-or tied up in the attic?
“I brought in an accountant do a quick audit of the journalism books.”
“Oh, did you? That was terribly clever of you.”
“Thank you. The fact that you were involved in the matter gave it more significance than one would normally give it.”
“Thank you. I didn’t realize my presence was quite so ominous.
“Your presence is always ominous. Ominous, omnipresent, and according to some rumors, omnipotent.”
“As much as I’ve enjoyed this repartee, I have more important things scheduled for the remainder of the afternoon,” I said through clenched teeth. “What did the accountant hid in the journalism books? If you’re not going to tell, do it now.”