Poisoned Pins (21 page)

I dropped my purse on the table and began to paw through drawers in search of a spare car key. By the time I found a key that might qualify, it was well after midnight. With a chortle of triumph, I went to bed.

Early the next morning, Caron and Inez dragged in while I was drinking coffee. They both had bloated faces, red-rimmed eyes, and surly expressions, all symptomatic of a sleepless night. Things thudded to the floor in Caron's room, and I was hastily finishing my coffee as they came into the kitchen.

“I am never leaving this place as long as I live,” Caron announced. “I will stay in my room until my hair turns gray, my teeth fall out, and my skin is overcome with liver spots and hairy, disgusting warts. Little children will creep cautiously into the yard, whispering and pointing at my window, but at the slightest twitch of my curtain, they'll scream and run. I shall become a legend in Farberville, but one day everyone
will cease speculating and forget about the pathetic old hag who resides in the attic.”

“You said your room,” Inez began, then stopped out of consideration for her continued well-being.

“There is an attic,” I said. “I've never been up there, but a couple of summers ago the landlord had someone spray for wasps. There's a trapdoor in the ceiling of the hall closet.”

“You are not amusing.” Caron lay down on the floor and closed her eyes, her arms crossed in the classic pose of the dearly departed. “Rhonda Maguire is nothing more than a garden tool,” she said in a doomed voice. “I don't care if I never see her again for fifty years, but she'd better watch out after I'm dead. I'm coming back as a carnivorous zombie.”

I frowned at Inez. “A garden tool?”

She nodded soberly at me, looked at the body attempting to decompose on the kitchen floor, and tiptoed to the nearest chair. She mouthed something at me, but it could have been almost anything, from a malediction to a sonnet.

“A hoe, Mother,” Caron said impatiently. “Are these hot flashes impairing your ability to relate to your current culture?”

“Most definitely.” I swallowed the last of the coffee and stood up. A benign parent would have slipped away soundlessly, or perhaps inquired with such sympathy that she would be regaled with the entirety of the tragedy. “So, how'd the limbo go? Win any prizes, or did Rhonda's center of gravity prevail?”

“The minute Louis Wilderberry walks onto the patio, Rhonda grabs him and starts telling these really incredible lies about how I claim to be the ultimate fashion dictator of the century, even the millennium. Everybody—Present Company Included—giggles and snickers, and then Rhonda goes, ‘Why don't we all chip in so Miss Perfect Palette can do a My Beautiful Self analysis of Louis?' He was so embarrassed that he literally ran back to his car. This was deemed Too
Funny for Words, and I heard about it right up until the rooster crowed three times at dawn.”

Inez slid down in her chair until her eyes were on the plane of the table top. “I didn't say one word, Caron. I thought Rhonda was being really stupid about it, but I still say you went too far when you locked yourself in her room for over an hour.”

“And did what?” I asked as calmly as I could.

Caron squeezed her eyes shut more tightly. “Nothing at all, Mother. I am not a vengeful person. If Rhonda calls, tell her I moved to France to live in a chateau.”

I looked at Inez, who shrugged and continued her slithery trip toward the floor. “Whatever you say, dear. I may need you to help out at the store this afternoon. I'll let you know—”

“You seem to have forgotten that I am never leaving this apartment. Furthermore, I am not answering the telephone, so your anonymous pervert's going to have to bother someone else. Inez, see if there's any orange juice in the refrigerator. I already feel my bones turning brittle.”

I left before I could learn what Caron had done in Rhonda's bedroom, although I knew I'd find out sooner or later. The key from the drawer fit the car, and the key from the kitchen counter fit the front door of the Book Depot. If only, I thought as I sat down on my stool, the clues I'd chanced upon fit as well. Arnie and Ed Whitbred had something to do with whatever was taking place, and I had proof of sorts that Dean Vanderson was involved. The active Kappa Theta Etas, the alumnae, the missing one, and even the deceased one qualified for some role in the muddlesome puzzle.

The most expedient plan would be to line up every last one of them and ask the manager of the Hideaway Haven if he'd seen any of them. However, that was a course available only to the authorities, who were not likely to cooperate with me. Neither was John Vanderson, but I called the college switchboard and asked for his office number, then dialed it.

“Dean Vanderson is in a meeting,” a secretary informed
me. “Then he has appointments all afternoon, and a reception at five for a federal judge. After that, he's hosting a dinner party for the judge and some of the faculty. Tomorrow he leaves for a week-long legal symposium in Las Vegas. If you can catch him, say hello for me.”

I waited a moment to see if she'd finished reciting the litany. “This can't wait for a week,” I said.

“Neither can final approval of the grant proposal that's due on Friday, nor can the editor of the
Law Review,
nor can the coed with a sexual harassment charge, nor can the faculty adviser of the judicial committee.” She hung up.

Humph, I thought as I went to the door and gazed at the traffic rattling over the train tracks. It didn't sound as though I would be able to regain access to Dean Vanderson's office as easily as I had the night before, not with a Medusa in the front room turning students and visitors alike to stone. Even if I were to risk such a fate, I was leery about running into the unfriendly custodian.

The mock Mrs. Vanderson decided to see what she could wheedle of the legitimate one. I resumed my seat, looked up her number, and called it, hoping it was too early for the luncheon circuit to have begun.

“Vanderson residence.”

I was shocked into silence, wildly wondering if my brain had been turned to stone. I gulped, blinked, and finally said, “Debbie Anne? Is that you?”

“No, it isn't!”

My entire body must have been turned to stone. I was unable to do anything except listen to the dial tone until a series of beeps nudged me into a semblance of consciousness. I numbly redialed the number. After a dozen plaintive rings, I replaced the receiver and considered the five words that she'd said. The twangy nasality of the voice was distinctive, and she had identified the residence. Had I made a mistake that offended the responder so deeply that she'd stalked out of earshot of the telephone? Or out the front door? If
it had indeed been Debbie Anne, why had she reacted with abruptness? And what on earth was she doing at the Vandersons' house?

I jotted down the address, locked the store, and ran to my car, congratulating myself on having driven to the bookstore on the off chance I might need to meet Dean Vanderson in a remote spot. “Just stay there,” I muttered as I pulled onto Thurber Street and headed for Farberville's historic district.

I'd repeated the plea a hundred times as I crept down Washington Avenue, looking for the house number. Enough of the historically correct occupants had numbers affixed to their porches to allow me to home in like a Scud missile and park in front of a well-preserved yellow Victorian house with a turret topped by a brass eagle. It and the lawn surrounding it were immaculate. There were no cars in the driveway.

No more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since the call, I tried to reassure myself as I hurried to the porch and knocked. No skinny girls had been walking on the sidewalks, and I knew she hadn't driven away in her car. I knocked again, then spotted an old-fashioned doorbell and twisted it vigorously. I could hear it grinding within, pleading for someone to heed its call and answer the door. No one did, however, and I finally let my hand drop.

“Are you looking for Eleanor?”

I looked back at a blue-haired woman wearing a raincoat and holding a leash with a gloved hand. At the end of the leash was a cocker spaniel dancing with excitement. “Yes, I am.” I struggled not to look as if I'd been considering breaking into the house with the brick at the edge of the porch. “Do you know when she'll be back?”

“She's at her garden club, and then I believe it's her afternoon at the gift shop at the hospital.” The woman glanced at the brick. “I live next door, and I'll be happy to let her know you dropped by for a visit.”

“That's so very kind of you. Actually, I'm looking
for one of the Kappa Theta Eta pledges who's staying here.”

“Eleanor didn't mention that she and John have a houseguest. Last summer her niece came for two weeks, but she's an alumna rather than a pledge. A lovely girl, I must say, and very clever. She has a degree in business administration, but what with the twins and her fund-raising efforts on behalf of the sorority, she's put her career on hold. Her husband is an orthodontist.”

“Isn't that interesting,” I murmured mendaciously. I waited, but the woman clearly intended to remain rooted to the sidewalk. Her dog had collapsed at her feet and was licking her shoe, out of either affection or starvation. “So you haven't noticed a tall, thin girl with brown hair?”

“They're all tall and thin these days, aren't they? When I was a gal, we were encouraged to have a few curves, but now they all strive to look like match-sticks.” She yanked on the leash. “Stop that, Brandy. Are you a Kappa Theta Eta, dear? I myself was a Chi Omega; I had so many legacies that I was almost carried through the door and bestowed on a throne on the first day of rush. My granddaughter's pledging this fall at my very own alma mater.”

She was a formidable opponent. I conceded her the win, smiled vaguely at the dog, and said I'd try to catch Eleanor at another time. She was still standing on the sidewalk as I drove away, more because of the entanglement with the leash than out of suspicion—or so I hoped. I drove past the library and up the hill, gnawing on my fingernail and considering what to do. I knew what I
should
do, of course. There was no question that I was teetering at the fringe of propriety, of what I could justify even to myself. Peter would listen to me (in between his ever so tedious remarks about my propensity for meddling), and he would be able to question the Vandersons, search the house, and eventually determine if they were harboring a fugitive. I, in
contrast, had been stymied by a woman with a dog. A boot-licking cocker spaniel.

Short of storming the garden club to take Eleanor hostage, I was at a loss for ideas. I finally parked in a site popular with moonsick lovers, cut off the engine, and let my head fall back against the seat. Jean Hall had coerced Debbie Anne into doing something—something that related to the boutique at the mall? Why dash away instead of acknowledging the mistake and heading for the proper store? Had Dean Vanderson stashed Debbie Anne in the attic and gone to the sorority house to get the negatives? Negatives of what? It was frightfully irksome that the anonymous caller preferred to deal with Caron, I thought with a sigh.

My next move was obvious, if not pretty.

Shortly before seven o'clock, I parked in a strategically chosen spot on a street perpendicular to Washington Avenue, and slouched in the seat in the tradition of a jaded private eye resigned to a boring and bitterly cold night of surveillance (it was a balmy evening, and we had two hours of daylight to go, but I was, as Caron would say, In A Mood). The Vandersons' Mercedes was parked in the driveway under the protection of an ancient magnolia tree, and as I watched, the car I'd seen in front of the Kappa Theta Eta house pulled in behind it. My quarry hurried into the house.

I was dressed not in a trenchcoat and fedora, but in a becoming green dress. I'd gone so far as to don pantyhose, heels, and faux pearls for the occasion. Having never hosted a federal judge, I wasn't sure when the festivities would begin, but I was praying I had a few minutes to speak in private to the dean.

My prayers went unnoticed. Before I reached the house, a black Cadillac stopped at the curb, followed by an entourage of imported vehicles. Those who emerged were dressed to kill, in the figurative sense, and were chattering amiably as they started for the house. Adopting my contingency plan, I slipped through the group and tucked my hand under the arm of a man with the white hair of a televangelist, the deceptively trustworthy eyes of same, and a hawkish red nose—and therefore the man most likely to be the revered judge.

“Isn't this lovely of John and Eleanor?” I said as I propelled him to the porch.

He squeezed my hand. “And of you, my dear. I don't believe we met at the reception. Are you on the faculty?”

“I waved at you from across the room, but it was so crowded, wasn't it? Let's do make an effort to have a nice little talk tonight, Your Honor.”

The front door was open and we streamed into the house like starlings to their roost. Eleanor greeted her guests with professional aplomb, transferring coats and wraps to a waiting maid, welcoming us with warm smiles and gracious words. Most of us, anyway. “Judge Frankley, I'm so honored and delighted you were able to come tonight, you and . . .” She dribbled to a halt. A tiny wrinkle appeared between her eyes, and a few more at the corners of her mouth.

“Claire,” I prompted her politely. “I think I see the bar, Judge Frankley. How about a martini?”

He rumbled happily as we continued into a living room right out of a glossy magazine spread. High ceilings, polished wood, antiques, doilies protecting table tops, a basket of pine cones next to the fireplace, an afghan draped over the arm of the sofa—the whole Americana bit.

“How long are you staying in Farberville?” I asked my abductee while we jostled for position in front of a table lined with bottles, a silver ice bucket with silver tongs, and crystal bowls of olives and citrus slices.