Poisoned Pins (13 page)

I did not burst into tears, but I admit I sniffled just a bit as I dusted the self-help racks with more than usual vigor. My predicament was of my own making, which made it all the more irritating, and by the time Caron and Inez came into the bookstore, I'd dusted every book, swept the floor, cleaned out the drawer beneath the cash register, and rearranged the racks in order to determine if I could add sorority and fraternity paraphernalia.

“Menopause,” Caron explained to Inez. “Her face is red and she's drenched in sweat. Furthermore, she's been behaving very erratically lately, and—”

“Help me move this table,” I interrupted in a glacial voice, struggling not to imagine the warm satisfaction I would receive if I throttled her on the spot.

Inez blinked soberly at me. “My mother started having hot flashes in her mid-forties, Mrs. Malloy. She said she felt as if she were wrapped in an electric blanket set as high as it would go. Sometimes she'd start crying for no reason, but the doctor gave her estrogen and it really worked.”

The intensity of my scowl provoked them into mutely helping me drag a heavy oak table across the room and situate it in front of the window. “I am not having hot flashes,” I said, panting. “Peter and I had a disagreement, and I was perturbed. I'm not even forty yet, for pity's sake, and I do not care for all this unsolicited advice from teenage girls whose knowledge of medical matters is gleaned from soap operas. Do you understand?”

“Whatever.” Caron wandered toward the office. “You had a call earlier this afternoon, by the way. Some man, but he didn't leave his name or number.”
As the door squeaked, she added with ill-disguised relish, “He said you'd better mind your own business or you'd be sorry.”

“What?” I gasped. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

“I just did, Mother. A rather poor choice of cliches, if you ask me, but the whole thing was probably a wrong number. I mean, why would some man call you? Do you have any diet sodas stashed in here? I'm about to Die of Thirst after all that work.”

Inez had edged behind the travel guides, as if she feared my purported hot flashes might escalate into an incendiary eruption. “We don't have much time,” she called to Caron. “You have an appointment in less than an hour and it'll take us a while to walk over there, especially if we go by the Kappa house to get the kit.”

“Who's the victim?” I asked her.

“Mrs. Verbena, the art teacher at the high school. I don't think she was all that enthusiastic, but she finally said Caron could come by and explain it.”

“She's an Elegant,” Caron said as she returned empty-handed. “Of course, I won't tell her until she agrees to pay me. My Beautiful Self consultants have to watch out for sneaky people who try to weasel free advice.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded my jeans and black T-shirt. “Some of us certainly could use some, free or otherwise. Come on, Inez, we have to go all the way to the Kappa house, and then turn around and go all the way back to Mrs. Verbena's house. If I had my own kit, we wouldn't have to walk the extra six blocks, but no one would lend me the money for one crummy week so I could get it. That's why we have to go all the way to the—”

“So Pippa didn't leave?” I asked before we reheard the entirety of the itinerary, which in her mind seemed to require miles of walking barefooted on glowing coals.

“If she'd left, I wouldn't be able to borrow her kit, would I?” She jabbed Inez. “I need to go home and change clothes. This forest green is good, but my royal-blue blouse really demonstrates how effective the
analysis is. If you'd stop being selfish about your new earrings, I could probably do an accessory awareness, too. Come on, it's going to take at least half an hour to get the kit and find Mrs. Verbena's house. If we're seconds late, she'll make up an excuse to leave and we'll have hiked All Over Town for nothing.”

Inez trudged after her, but turned around and came back to put her hand on my arm. “Why don't you call my mother, Mrs. Malloy? I'm sure she'll be happy to give you the name of her doctor.”

“I'll think about it,” I said through clenched teeth. Once they were gone, I sat on the table and stared at the cobwebs on She rafters, wishing I'd stayed in bed with the Sunday newspaper and countless pots of tea—or with the blanket pulled over my head. First Peter, then the girls, and to top off the afternoon, an anonymous threatening call.

After another bout of sniffling, I bestirred myself and dialed the number Debbie Anne had given me. This time a woman answered, and I told her who I was and why I was calling.

“I am worried sick about this,” Imogene Wray said, having identified herself as such in a twangy drawl identical to her daughter's. “The police calling, and then Brodie—he's the deputy sheriff—coming by to make sure Debbie Anne wasn't under the bed or out in the barn. My husband's ulcer flared up so bad he finally went over to the drugstore to buy another bottle of that gooey pink medicine. I can't imagine what's gotten into Debbie Anne. She's always been so sweet and respectful, never ever in any kind of trouble. You can ask any of her teachers at the school, and they'll tell you the same thing.”

“I want to help her, but I don't know where she is or how to find her. Has she ever mentioned any friends who live in Farberville and might let her stay with them?”

“I don't reckon she has any friends outside the sorority,” Imogene said promptly. “That's all she ever talks about, how they had a party or played cards or
went to the picture show together. They seem to keep her awful busy when she's not studying, but I guess the reason for joining a group like that is to have girlfriends who are as close as sisters.”

I told Mrs. Wray that I'd let her know if I found Debbie Anne and replaced the receiver. It appeared that Debbie Anne had failed to communicate the true nature of her relationship with her sorority sisters, but that was understandable and by no means proof that she was generally mendacious.

What I needed was not estrogen therapy, but a clear idea of Debbie Anne's personality. And of Jean Hall's, I added as I wrote each name on a discarded envelope. Presumably, they were opposites, but I had no idea which personified good, which evil. Winkie and Eleanor had made their position known, and Rebecca and Pippa were likely to concur. Imogene Wray dissented, but she was biased. Peter didn't care. I seemed to be the only person willing to defend Debbie Anne, although I wasn't going to do it until I had more evidence about her.

Unable to rally the energy to play devil's advocate, I tried a scenario in which she was nothing more complex than a soggy-nosed ninny. If this persona accidentally hit Jean in the alley, she would have leaped out of the car and dashed inside to call an ambulance. She might have been distressed to the point of hysteria, but if she'd panicked, she would have gone no farther than my apartment to sob on my shoulder (if I let her, and since it was my scenario, I instead made her sit at the kitchen table) and whine about her troubles.

Her telephone call added to my confusion. If she had been telling the truth, she hadn't been driving her car, and had gone into hiding for another reason—one that had to do with illegal activity instigated by that lovely girl Jean, who was in no condition to be questioned.

The anonymous call was equally bewildering. Arnie? The man-in-the-moon prowler? Some unknown figure who lacked the imagination to come up with an innovative threat? After all, I
was
minding my own
business, or at least what business there was on a Sunday afternoon in June; it was hardly my fault that prowlers kept popping out of the Kappa shrubbery like possessed prairie dogs.

A growing sense of petulance provoked me into closing the bookstore several hours earlier than I'd intended. I took the long route home in order to avoid passing the sorority house, although I couldn't prevent myself from glancing at it as I approached my porch. Rebecca and Pippa sat on the top step, surrounded by unopened textbooks, notebooks, bags of chips, and cans of soda, clearly more interested in painting their fingernails than in the quest for knowledge.

I veered across the lawn and said, “Have you heard from Debbie Anne?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I'm not sitting here waiting for her to walk up the sidewalk so I can give her a welcoming hug. After what she did to Jean, she'd better have taken the first bus home to her little redneck enclave amid the pigsties and chicken coops.” Her lovely blue eyes brimmed with tears, and her lovely voice with bitterness. “Jean and I were best friends since our first semester, and we shared a room until last year when we both moved into private rooms. It was going just great—until that pious little bitch pledged Kappa Theta Eta and ruined everything!”

“Pious?” I echoed.

“She didn't approve of anything, not even some of the boring public relations stuff the pledge class has to do every year. Apparently in her hometown, nobody ever smoked a cigarette or drank a glass of decent French wine, much less partied past midnight. Right before spring break, Jean bribed one of the Betas to take Debbie Anne out and get her good and drunk, but she drank half a martini, gagged on the olive, and threw up all over his front seat. What's that supposed to do for our reputation?”

I had no answer for that. “Debbie Anne did tell me that she was pressured to do things she felt were wrong.”

“Such as?” Rebecca said with a faint sneer that reminded me of Jean.

“She said she couldn't tell me because I wasn't in the sorority. Her faced turned red, however, and she implied they were things that would upset her preacher.”

Pippa giggled. “She was probably thinking of the Bedroom Olympics weekend. What a prude!”

“You have to consider her background,” I said, hoping I didn't sound prudish. “But you're convinced she was driving her car when Jean was struck?”

Rebecca leaned back and regarded me coolly. “Winkie tried to convince us it was an accident, as did Mrs. Vanderson, but I won't buy it. There's light in the alley, and it's too narrow for someone to be driving very fast. It's obvious that Debbie Anne did it on purpose. She murdered Jean out of jealousy.”

Trying to mask my surprise, I said, “I would have said it was more a case of wistfulness than of jealousy.”

“Everybody in the house knew how jealous she was. She stole silk blouses from Jean on at least two occasions, and she pretended to be overcome with astonishment when Jean's tennis bracelet just happened to turn up in
her
desk drawer. Maybe in the beginning she just wanted to be like Jean, but became so obsessed that eventually she had to be Jean. When she realized she couldn't, she slandered her and finally killed her.”

I certainly had no need to probe delicately to ascertain her opinion of Debbie Anne. I shifted my attention to Pippa, who was not dimpling.

“It might have been an accident,” she said in response to my implicit question, “but Debbie Anne's awfully moody and reserved. She never contributed to the conversation or told jokes, and it was like a total waste of time trying to teach her to play bridge. One night I found her hunkered in the shower as if she were in a catatonic stupor. A real spook, if you ask me.”

“A real bitch,” growled Rebecca.

“And neither of you has any idea where she might be?” I asked with faint optimism.

Pippa gave me a facetiously sad look. “And neither of us cares. Mrs. Malloy, I don't know if Caron's said anything to you, but you really shouldn't wear black. It tends to emphasize all those wrinkles around your nose and chin, and it makes your complexion look ashy.”

“How nice of you to notice,” I said as my fingernails dug into my palms. “Caron mentioned that you were thinking about dropping out of school for the remainder of the summer. I presume you've changed your mind?”

“You what?” Rebecca turned on her so abruptly that fingernail polish splattered on her knee and dribbled onto the porch like viscous pink blood. “You're damn well not going to split for the summer, honey! We're both going to stay right here at the Kappa Theta Eta house for the duration, especially after what happened to Jean.” She caught my bright-eyed look and forced a melancholy smile. “I lost one of my best friends, and I cannot bear to lose another so soon.”

It sounded like a line from Tennessee Williams, and the setting was appropriate: decaying mansion, dusty summer afternoon, sisterhood gone awry, tumultuous emotions poorly disguised. All we needed was a surly male in a stained undershirt and a clattering streetcar.

I hesitated, but Rebecca was wiping the polish off her knee with a tissue and Pippa was shriveling into the woodwork. To the latter, I said, “It was kind of you to lend Caron your color analysis kit.”

“Oh, it was nothing, and I feel sorry for her. I know what kind of psychological damage can be caused by feelings of economic deprivation, and it's important to feel a part of one's peer group at such a vulnerable age. I just hope she can make enough money this summer to buy a car and successfully integrate herself into her self-perceived community.”

I repressed the urge to point out that Caron was neither economically deprived nor noticeably vulnerable, despite her incessant complaining to the contrary. Her
relationship with the infamous Rhonda Maguire was the root of all evil, and I was disinclined to listen to a spate of psychobabble from someone who dimpled—sympathetically, no less.

“Please let me know if Debbie Anne comes back,” I said and headed for my apartment. I was halfway through the downstairs door when a cacophony of rumbles, rattles, wheezes, and clanks caught my attention. The green truck pulled to the curb, and visible through the bug-splattered windshield was none other than Arnie Riggles. He lurched across the passenger's seat and disappeared, but after a moment the window on that side began to descend in tiny jerks.

I had several questions for him, and it seemed an auspicious moment to pose them. Before I could rally sufficient enthusiasm, however, Rebecca hurried down the sidewalk and began to converse through the window. She spoke rapidly and urgently, pausing for what had to be responses from the pit of the passenger's seat, and then reacting with increased urgency. Stunned, I could only watch as she stepped back and Arnie resurfaced behind the steering wheel and drove past my house and around the corner. I looked back in time to see Rebecca and Pippa entering the sorority house. What on earth could strikingly beautiful, perfectly packaged Rebecca have to discuss with someone as vile and oily as Arnie?