by Joan Hess
“Then it was a senseless accident?” Covering her face with her hands, Winkle began to rock back and forth, moaning softly and occasionally flicking away a tear with an impatient gesture. “Oh, that poor, poor girl. She was so intelligent, so determined, so decisive, and a truly outstanding Kappa Theta Eta. She’s maintained the highest grade point average in the house since her first semester as a pledge, and it was very likely that she would receive a stipend from the scholarship foundation to help finance her law studies.”
I allowed her to carry on for a minute, then eased her hands away from her face and handed her the dishtowel. “The police haven’t been able to locate Jean’s parents yet. Do you have paperwork with that sort of information?”
“There’s a file cabinet in my bedroom. The keys to it and to the suite are in my handbag there on the floor I’d appreciate it so much if you could see to it, Claire. Never has any of the girls been seriously ill, much less… passed away while under my care. I feel responsible for Jean’s tragedy. If only I’d been here, she might not have walked up the alley but instead chosen to stay on the sidewalk. I don’t know how many times I’ve scolded them for utilizing shortcuts at night.”
I didn’t know how many times, either, but this was my second turn to hear it. I scooped up her handbag and went into the foyer tersely explained my mission to Peter and Jorgeson, and stopped at the door of Winkie’s suite, all the while digging through wadded tissues, checkbooks, pencils, folded papers, and plastic pill boxes for a set of keys.
There were more than fifty keys on the ring, but I opted for a noticeably worn one and slid it into the lock. A tiny click confirmed my intuitive acuity.
“I’ll bring you the files,” I said to Peter, then went into the living room and felt for a light switch. All I encountered was the fuzziness of the flocked wallpaper, but I had a decent visual image of the layout and headed for a floor lamp beyond the rocking chair. I was groping for the button when burning needles plunged into my ankle.
As startled as I was pained, I recoiled instinctively, stumbled over the coffee table, and went sprawling headlong into the sofa. I heard shrieks and realized they were my own, but before I could convince myself to stop, Peter and Jorgeson barreled through the doorway with the dedication of Marines, weapons drawn, scowls in place, hands curled into fists.
Jorgeson aimed the flashlight at me. “Are you okay? Did someone attack you?” Peter was saying much the same thing, but he was speaking so rapidly and urgently that he was difficult to understand.
Had I been in a more dignified posture, I would have thanked him for his concern. However, with my knee wedged under my chin, one foot hooked around a table leg, my nose embedded in a throw pillow, and my ankle throbbing, I was not in an appreciative mood. “I’m fine,” I muttered. “Turn on the damn light”
As soon as Jorgeson complied, Peter realized there was no one else in the room and lowered his gun before he unwittingly put pockmarks in the flock. “Why’d you scream?” he asked.
“I think the cat bit me. Although it would give me a great deal of pleasure to watch you shoot off its head, I suppose you’d better not until we’re sure it doesn’t have rabies.”
Peter frowned. ‘What cat?”
“It was here a minute ago, but now it’s likely to be cowering under the bed or hiding in a closet.” I struggled to a sitting position and examined my ankle. “It didn’t break the skin, so I don’t have to worry about rabies. Go ahead and shoot it.”
“Maybe later” Peter said. “Give me the key ring so that Jorgeson and I can get the files. We’ve been trained to fight off homicidal kitty cats.”
I flung the keys at him. He caught them deftly, and he and Jorgeson left the room. I examined my wound once more for droplets of blood, found none, and decided to track down the beast and if not reciprocate in kind, at least make known my displeasure at its antics. Beyond the living room was a passageway equipped to serve as a kitchen. On one side was a dinette in front of a window with pink-and-white gingham curtains, and across from that a small refrigerator, a sink, and a two-burner stove. There were two wineglasses on the counter; the decanter had been rinsed and left to dry on a rack.
The kitchen had no potential hiding places for the cat, nor did the utilitarian bathroom beyond it. In the bedroom, Peter was seated on the unmade bed, an open file spread across his knees. Jorgeson shuffled through the contents of the bottom drawer of the metal filing cabinet. I crouched to look under the bed (where indeed there was a bottle of brandy), then opened the closet door and found only clothes, shoes, clumps of cat hair, and a suitcase.
“The aunt’s her legal guardian,” Peter said as he took notes. “There’s a work number, but it’s an insurance office, and we won’t catch her at this hour I’d better call the local police and ask them to wait at the house until she returns.”
Jorgeson plucked a manila file from the drawer. “Here’s one with the Wray girl’s name, and according to-” He noticed me and stopped.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I said with a shrug. “I was looking for the cat to make sure I hadn’t kicked it when I fell.” I backed out of the bedroom and retreated to the kitchen, puzzled by the absence of the cat, but by no means distressed. It could have run out the door while Peter and Jorgeson goggled at me, or escaped into some obscure niche that I’d overlooked. Although I must have frightened it, I was fairly certain I hadn’t hurt it, and it was welcome to stay wherever it was-indefinitely. Hoping Winkle had recovered enough to answer a few questions, I took a step and then noticed the screen beyond the open window was improperly set. When I pushed it, it obligingly fell into the bushes below. Had the cat so desired, it could easily have slipped out the window and scampered away to attack hapless pedestrians.
Pleased with my deductive prowess, I returned to the lounge. Winkie was still ashen, but she had dried her face and was sitting primly, her hands gripped in her lap and her head erect. “I couldn’t bring myself to go out there,” she said to me, “but I did look through the window. That poor poor girl. What kind of person would do such a dreadful thing?”
“The police will find out as soon as possible.” I went to the window. The body had been enclosed in a bag and was being placed in the ambulance, and as I watched, a tow truck pulled up next to the white car. Turning back, I said, “Where are the other girls tonight?”
“I don’t know,” she said blankly. “They come and go as they wish, and there are no curfews anymore. When I was in school, we had study hall every evening during tile week and had to be in the house by midnight on the weekends. Now they all have their own keys, although we do have the locks re-keyed at least once a semester, since one of the girls inevitably loses hers. I switch on the security system at midnight. This requires the girl to punch in a four-digit code, as well as use her door-key. Very often she’ll have had too much to drink and will forget the code or hit the wrong button. Either results in the alarm going off, and the girl has to explain her thoughtlessness to the standards committee.”
I was about to ask if the committee could pass down the death penalty when I heard increasingly strident voices from the foyer. Peter’s was easy to recognize; the other was more elusive, and I frowned as I strained to identify it.
“Eleanor Vanderson,” Winkie said without enthusiasm. Her theory was confirmed as the woman thus tagged came into the room, her heels clattering like a machine gun. She was dressed more casually than she’d been the night we met, but her jacket and trousers were by no means shoddy and her hair was impeccable. “What is going on, Winkle?” she asked unsteadily. “Are those men who they say they are? Has something happened to one of the girls?”
“There was an accident, Eleanor Jean Hall was hit by a car in the alley.” Winkle made an effort to stand, but sank back down and covered her face with her hands.
Eleanor froze as Peter and Jorgeson passed through the room and disappeared into the kitchen. “Jean Hall? Are you sure? I can’t believe… Could you please explain this, Mrs. Mallo
y?”
Beginning to feel like a cassette player, I told her what had happened to Jean.
“But that’s dreadful,” she said as she sat down next to Winkie and patted her back. “Jean was such an asset to the chapter, always enthusiastic and cooperative, eager to organize activities for the pledge class. DO you remember her initiation, Winkle? She looked angelic in her white dress, didn’t she? When she sang the Kappa Theta Eta prayer, I nearly cried.”
“Why are those police cars parked in the alley?” demanded Rebecca from the doorway of the lounge.
“They strung yellow tape all over the place and wouldn’t let us through,” Pippa added indignantly, standing on her toes so she could see over Rebecca’s shoulder. “When the ambulance came by, we literally had to stand in the ditch.”
I waited for a brief moment to see if Debbie Anne Wray might appear over Pippa’s shoulder with additional complaints, but she did not. I left Winkle and Eleanor to tell them what had happened, went out the front door, and cut across the lawn to my porch. Only a short time earlier I’d been within forty feet of it, lost in a reverie of food and drink, but I’d been sidetracked into violence and death.
I was halfway up the stairs when I realized I’d forgotten to tell Peter about my encounter with Arnie, maybe because it had had such a dreamlike quality-or nightmarish, anyway. Why had he been hiding beside the Kappa house? He’d admitted he was in what he called a sticky situation, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. I doubted he’d stolen Debbie Anne’s car and run over Jean as she approached the house. Arnie was an ambulatory catastrophe, but he was motivated by the preservation of his pickled condition rather than by innate wickedness.
I went to my bedroom window and looked at the sorority house. All of the lights were ablaze on the ground floor, including those in Winkie’s suite. The top of the screen was visible within a bush. I’d also forgotten to tell her what I’d done or ask Peter to have one of his men replace it. My lapse would allow Katie to sneak back in after a night of terrorizing the town, however, and Winkle would surely notice its absence in the morning.
A campus police car stopped in front of the house. It was too dark to tell if the two officers were the ones I’d encountered previously, but it seemed likely that Peter had sent for them to get a full report about the prowlers. As they disappeared beneath the roof of the porch, yet another car pulled up to the curb. Hoping it might be Debbie Anne returning with a date and an alibi, I waited for someone to materialize.
The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out of the car I caught a glimpse of a round white face and a bald head that glittered in the bath of the streetlight. Massaging his chin and mouth with one hand, he stared at the house for a full minute, then climbed back into his car and drove away.
I went to my kitchen, where I found a note from Caron that stated she was spending the night at Inez’s house. I made a pot of tea, heated the fettuccini, and retired to the living room to eat. I wasn’t confident that Peter would appear before morning, but I was eager to find out if they’d located Debbie Anne. It could have been an accident, I thought as I envisioned her behind the wheel of the white car. The alley was dark and narrow, but the college kids drove down it as if it were an interstate, and on more than one occasion my hatchback had been imperiled.
However, I had no notions where she might go, nor was I inclined to walk the streets until dawn, plaintively calling her name in hopes of coaxing her out of a shadowy hideout. Assuring myself that Farberville’s Finest would do just that, I went to bed.
Peter did not appear at the Book Depot until nearly noon. He hadn’t shaved, I noted with a wince as he nuzzled my neck, although he had changed into a fresh shirt and another of his expensive Italian suits. “Let’s go away next weekend,” he said, displaying a goodly amount of seductive charm. “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine…
“Did you find Debbie Anne?”
He released me and folded his arms. “No, we did not find Debbie Anne, my dear snoop. She didn’t return to the sorority house last night, and hasn’t shown up as of now. She didn’t go to her classes, the library, or her parents’ home.”
“How could she? You’ve impounded her car.”
“It’s one of those official things we do, along with the yellow tape and the fingerprints. The captain saw it on some television show and decided we ought to try it.”
“Whose fingerprints were on the steering wheel?” I asked, refusing to react to his sarcasm. I had more important things on my meddlesome mind. “What about prints on the door handle? Did you find her purse?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know, and no.” He gazed at me with an expression not unlike that of a condemned man on the gallows. “Ml you did was have dinner at the sorority house, Claire. It’s evident that you didn’t like them then, and I can think of no reason why you might have changed your mind. They’ve interfered with your sleep, burdened you with their personal problems-and their cat bit you, for pity’s sake!”
“So what’s your point?”
“Furthermore, as far as we know, we’re dealing with involuntary manslaughter rather than a baffling mystery resplendent with red herrings and subtle, provocative clues. Debbie Anne Wray accidentally ran over the Hall girl, and now is sobbing at a friend’s apartment until she gets up the nerve to turn herself in. This is not something in a mystery novel.”
I contemplated mentioning it was right up my alley, in more ways than one, but instead nodded meekly and said, “I suppose not. Did you reach Jean’s aunt?”
He shot me a suspicious look. “She came home around midnight, and the local police officers informed her of the accident. It turns out that Jean’s parents live in California, but when the girl decided to come to school here, she filed some papers to have her aunt appointed her legal guardian.”
“in save having to pay out-of-state tuition?”
“That’s what the aunt said.”
“I’m surprised the registrar fell for that ploy, but I must admit I’m not surprised Jean came up with it in the first place. She’d probably been planning to be a lawyer since birth, her little red face aglow with glee at the thought of suing the doctor for malpractice. Is her body going to be sent back to California?”
“In a day or two.” Peter managed a smile or two, and had either quit suspecting my motives or was concealing it well. After a brief discussion about dinner the next evening, he left and I sat on the stool and tried to convince myself that he was right, that this wasn’t anything more than an unfortunate accident. Debbie Anne would turn herself in, sniveling steadily, and ultimately the judicial system would slap her wrist and admonish her to be more careful in the future.
Then again, her reception at the sorority house might be chilly, to put it mildly, and National would demand the return of her pledge pin and faded pink sweatshirt. No more secret whistles and construction-paper cutouts in her future. No hope of singing the Kappa Theta Eta prayer so sweetly that Eleanor Vanderson would weep.
I was working on a secret whistle that I would share only with regular Book Depot customers when Caron and Inez came through the door. I tried it on them.
“This is not the time for parakeet imitations,” Caron said as she slumped across the counter, covering her head with one arm and speaking in a hollow, muffled voice. “My life is in shambles. I might as well die right now and get it over with. Inez, call the funeral home and ask if they’re running any specials this week. Thll them I’ll need an ivory casket.”
“I don’t think I have a black dress,” I said, frowning, “but I did buy a nice navy one last week.”
She lifted her head far enough to glare malevolently at me. “Navy is not one of your colors, Mother. It makes you look like you’ve got one of those polysyllabic diseases.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Malloy,” contributed Inez. “You really ought to wear earth tones like salmon and peach. For a funeral, you could wear gray, maybe.”
“Thank you.” I awaited the next development with jaded maternal
patience.
I was rewarded with another malevolent look and a string of sighs. Caron at last found the energy to stand up. “Don’t you care that my Life Is in Shambles?”
“Not as long as I know what to wear to your funeral. Can I rely on Inez’s advice when I take clothes to the mortuary?”
“You’re not funny, Mother.”
I’d assumed otherwise, but merely said, “What’s the cause of the ruination of your life at the tender age of fifteen? Out of deodorant? Expired subscription to Seventeen magazine? New pimples?”
Inez blinked sternly at me. “You shouldn’t make jokes about it, Mrs. Malloy. Didn’t you see the ambulances and police cars in the alley behind the Kappa house last night? There was a horrible accident and one of the girls was-”
“I wasn’t making jokes about that. I know what happened, and it’s not in any way amusing.” I began to realize the source of Caron’s eloquent and well-dramatized misery. She wasn’t mourning Jean’s death by any means. “This has to do with your Beautiful Self, doesn’t it?”
“Pippa’s thinking about dropping out for the rest of the summer and going with some friends to France or someplace dumb like that. She says she’s too upset about Jean to stay in the house.”
“And you can’t continue doing the analyses without her?”
“Not if she takes her kit with her,” Caron said with the long-suffering resignation characteristic of the age. “If you’d lent me the money in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this situation, but you wouldn’t so much as invest one lousy dollar in my career Now there’s no way I can buy a car at the end of the summer. All along, you’ve encouraged me to be resourceful and industrious, and you’re the one who said-”
“That’s enough,” I said evenly. “I did not tell you to do something that goes beyond the ethical pale by exploiting your friends. If you want to earn money, line up some baby-sitting jobs or yard-work. Run errands for people. Clean houses.”