Poisoned Pins (7 page)

I was disappointed, but I reassured myself that my curiosity might yet be assuaged and turned my attention to this rare and precious commodity—the customer. “Finding anything good?” I called.

He poked his head over the top of the rack. “No, not as of yet. I was gonna buy a copy of
Bimbos of the Death Sun
to give to this lady I've been hanging out with, but you don't have any. She's kind of spooked by science fiction fans, and refused to go to the last World Con with me, even though I assured her that no one's been badly injured in a D&D game for more than a
year. It was his fault, anyway, for thinking he ought to challenge a five-hundred-pound Plutonian mercenary with a real sword when—”

“I do have a copy,” I interrupted. I was about to give him specifics when it occurred to me that he might not be in a right-left mode. I joined him in front of the gaudy covers. “I saw it several days ago, right . . . in that empty space.”

“So maybe you sold it?” he said.

Recalling sales was unpleasantly easy. “No, I didn't,” I said with a puzzled frown. “I'm certain I had the one copy and it was there two or three days ago. I've sold some romances, a few classics that are on the high school reading list for the fall, a book on building decks, and a cookbook. That's it for the week. If I didn't sell it, someone stole it!”

I stomped back to the counter, reached for the telephone, and then lowered my hand, and, I hoped, my blood pressure. It was doubtful the police would rush to the scene of the crime to fingerprint the rack and take photographs of the ominously empty spot. Not for a paperback that cost less than four dollars.

“Wow, what a bummer,” my SF freak said as he left.

“Wow, what a bummer,” I echoed under my breath as the bell tinkled and the cash register stayed mute. “What a bummer, indeed;”

At some point Caron had groveled and I'd granted a period of probation, although I'd made it clear that I considered her a habitual offender who'd best tiptoe through the rest of the summer unless she wanted to walk through the rest of her high school years. Peter seemed to have tiptoed off to battle larcenous mall rats, which was fine with me.

On Friday I called Luanne Bradshaw and arranged to meet her late in the afternoon at the beer garden.

“A secret whistle, if you can imagine,” I said to her after we'd settled down at a corner picnic table shaded by a lush wisteria vine. “I always associated that kind of thing with the male-only clubs where they wear funny hats and play games in the woods. It never occurred to me that I was living next door to it.”

Luanne snickered at me, as she so often was inclined to do. She's of a similar age and political persuasion, divorced, and owns Secondhand Rose, a used-clothing store that specializes in outrageously funky clothes from the thirties and forties. This endears her to Caron, who has elevated avarice to an art form, and I regret to say Luanne's not immune to taking advantage of it when she needs help unpacking a shipment or straightening stock.

“And a ritual closet,” I added, wiggling my eyebrows. “I've learned they keep candles in it, but for all we know, they've got an altar, hooded robes hanging on hooks, and all sorts of medieval instruments of torture. They seem to go through cats on a regular basis.”

Luanne refilled her cup from the pitcher, somehow
managing to light a cigarette in the midst of the process, and leaned back against the rough bench. “Could this sudden obsession with a houseful of flat-bellied girls have any relationship to what you perceive to be impending bankruptcy?”

“There's no need to be vulgar.”

“It's characteristic of those of us who are categorized as Sophisticates,” she said, letting smoke dribble out of the corners of her mouth in the style of an aged Hollywood starlet. “You are no doubt aware of the ramifications of being labeled thusly, but it had to be explained to me in great detail. For a small fee, of course.”

“You didn't . . . ?”

“I resisted as best I could, but your daughter is not only charmingly persuasive, but also more obstinate than any one-eyed mule in the state. I finally got fed up with listening to her whine and agreed to a color analysis, although I was terrified I would be deemed something like ‘anemic' I'm sure you're vastly relieved to know that because of my milky white skin, ebony hair with silver highlights, and clear blue eyes with risque white flecks, I am definitely a Sophisticate. This means I'm allowed to wear black, white, emerald, and navy—but under no circumstances short of my own funeral am I to be caught dead in brown or orange.” She plucked at her shirt and made a face. “I don't remember if I absolutely must wear green or absolutely must not. What do you think—am I radiant or muddy?”

“Definitely radiant. At least you know how to avoid humiliating yourself in public. I've yet to submit, and based on the number of smirks and snorts aimed at me daily, I obviously am violating my palette and therefore denying myself immeasurable happiness and admiration. How much did she hit you for?”

“Ten dollars. I resisted the accessory awareness nonsense, so I do have a smidgen of self-esteem. Why on earth do you allow her to do this, Claire?”

“Allow her to do this?” I laughed at such naiveté.
“Come on, you raised a couple of teenagers not that long ago. Did you really charge into battle over the misdemeanors, or did you save your energy for the full-fledged felonies? That dippy sorority girl has Caron convinced that there's a bag of money waiting to be plucked out of the gutter by the next My Beautiful Self consultant. My formerly articulate daughter now drifts around the apartment muttering obtusely about the emotional acceptance of one's palette, but only when she's not drooling on the automotive section of the classified ads. She and Inez did a clothes exchange that would have shamed a roomful of commodities brokers. They sustained a disagreement about whether a sweater was cocoa or chocolate until I found myself in the doorway screaming that it was brown and that was that and if I heard one more word about it, it would be reverted to a ball of yarn.”

Luanne gazed thoughtfully at a trio of men entering the beer garden, dismissed them for failing to meet an unspecified criterion of hers, and replenished her cup. “And are the big bucks rolling in as promised?”

“She's having a bit of trouble finding clients. She conned Inez's mother and the woman who rents the downstairs apartment, and you, of course, but she hasn't mentioned any others. Oddly enough, her friends aren't eager to fork over ten dollars to be told their wardrobes are total disasters. I heard her arguing with Rhonda on the telephone, and I sat up all night, fully expecting the house to be torched by someone whose unfortunate sal-lowness could be corrected in a single session. I'm afraid Caron's training was strong on palettes and weak on tact.”

“She'll learn eventually,” Luanne said as she stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “I know cradle-robbing's unattractive, but is it truly tacky?”

Having no problem with the non sequitur, I glanced over my shoulder and turned back with a wicked grin. “As long as you don't mind being asked if you're his mother or his baby-sitter.”

We debated various male, manly, and macho attributes
until the pitcher was empty and the garden began to grow crowded and noisy. The sight of a quintet of shaggy-haired boys setting up mammoth speakers on the stage in preparation to assault our sensibilities was more than enough to send us away. When we reached the sidewalk, Luanne headed for her store and I strolled toward my apartment. There was little traffic in the street alongside the campus lawn, thus allowing me to savor the scent of honeysuckle rather than the stench of auto exhaust.

I was contemplating which frozen entree might best suit my mood when a voice hissed my name from the shrubbery next to the Kappa Theta Eta house. It was enough to jolt me out of my gluttonous reverie, and as I turned, I saw blue lights flashing in the alley behind the house. Static from a radio mingled with the barking of male voices and the slamming of car doors.

A single light glinted in the front room, but the porch light was off and the shadows exceedingly thick on either side. They'd also spoken to me, which was less than heartening. These were the very same shadows that had produced prowlers only a few nights earlier—rude and rambunctious prowlers who knocked down women.

“Psst! Miz Malloy!” the voice repeated beseechingly.

I opted not to rush headlong into potential physical discomfort. “Who is it?”

“I got to talk to you. I think I'm in trouble.”

“Unlike Moses, I do not converse with bushes. You have two seconds to show yourself. Otherwise, I shall either scream for the police, who are conveniently situated behind the house, or perhaps merely continue to my apartment to microwave a low-sodium serving of fettucini with a medley of garden vegetables and a tangy cheese sauce. Got that, bush?”

A hunched figure emerged. To my dismay, it was Arnie. He held up a trembling hand and said, “Don't scream, for pete's sake. This ain't none of my doing, Senator, but I seem to be in what some might describe
as a sticky situation. What say we go to your place and discuss it over a martini or two?”

He came to the sidewalk, where I had a better view of his wet, slack mouth and a better whiff of his indifference to personal hygiene. “I don't know what all's going on back there,” he continued. “It most likely has to do with the body in the middle of the alley, but with the cops, you can't ever be sure what they're up to.” He winked at me, although it seemed to require more than minimal effort. “I guess my appointment is canceled, so how about a little drink, Senator?”

I jammed my hands in my pockets before I lost my resolve and punched him in the nose. “You know damn well that I'm not a senator. Just drop it and explain what you said about a body in the alley.”

“It's not a pretty sight,” he said, shaking his head. “Come to think of it,
Washington Weekly
will be on before too long. Tonight's topic is the impact of the trade agreements with Japan on the American auto industry, which happens to be of particular interest to me. Helluva show, doncha think, Senator?”

“Arnie,” I said with all the venom I could muster, “let's get this straight once and—”

“Smile!” He whipped a camera from behind his back. The flash exploded in my eyes, and for a brief moment all I could see were ragged red and purple circles. They'd not yet faded completely as he scuttled past me, climbed into his truck, and drove away, his taillights blinking farewell long before I could concoct a response.

Arnie's repeated avowals of my political position arose from an incident in the past, when he'd been assigned to drive a state senator and a local beauty queen in the Thurberfest parade. He'd shown up drunk and obligated me, the very unwilling assistant pageant director, to play chauffeur (while dodging bullets). In his alcoholic haze, he'd decided I was the senator rather than the beauty queen—a politically correct yet mildly insulting assumption. When Caron had lured me into investigating a pet-theft ring, Arnie'd nearly managed
to have me arrested for harboring a fugitive, and shortly thereafter he'd come close to watching me chewed to bits by a trio of enraged pit bulls. All in all, he was not a dear friend. Given the chance, I would have driven a stake through his heart. Cheerfully.

In the alley, the blue lights continued to rotate and the radios to crackle. More car doors slammed, and the beam of a flashlight bobbled on the foliage. There was likely to be an iota of truth in Arnie's statement, I thought as I hesitated on the sidewalk and tried to discern what was happening. The alley ran behind several Greek communes, of both the imposing and the marginally renovated varieties, and it was a handy shortcut from the bastions of academia to the bars of Thurber Street. Although I had to drive a short distance on it to park in the basement garage of my duplex, I rarely promenaded down it, being as averse to miasmatic garbage dumpsters as I was to sweat—and to Arnie.

I finally went past my house, turned at the corner, and turned again at the north end of the alley. There were three police cars parked behind the Kappa house, their lights flashing mutely, and spotlights had been placed to illuminate what I assumed was the cause of the official presence.

An engraved invitation was not likely, nor would I be welcomed into the group and offered details. I knew from experience that officers at the scene of the crime could be blustery and indignant over the presence of a civic-minded citizen who was eager to share her in-sights into the heinous deed. Peter Rosen, for example, could be quite adamant about what he considered meddlesome intrusions.

There was more going on than a case of a cat flattened by a garbage truck, however, and I was determined to find out what it was. I approached tentatively, pausing every step to scan the crowd for Peter or his minion, Jorgeson. I wasn't at all sure if I'd have more success with them or without them, and I was decidedly ambivalent when I caught a glimpse of Peter's
curly black hair as he beckoned at an ambulance creeping toward the scene from the opposite direction.

“Okay,” I heard him snap, “where's the medical examiner? You called him—when? Ten minutes ago? Unlike this poor girl, we don't have all night!”

Jorgeson appeared, consulting his watch, and pulled Peter aside to converse. I was keeping an eye on them as I edged forward, and therefore yelped when a flashlight caught me in the face and an unfamiliar voice said, “Hey, Lieutenant, we got a sightseer. You want I should sell her a ticket—or does she already have a season pass?”

This did not amuse Lieutenant Peter Rosen, who shook off Jorgeson's hand and stalked to the edge of the lights. “Claire,” he said with petulance rather than the enthusiasm for which I'd hoped, “what are you doing here? Just go to your apartment and wait, okay? I've got enough problems as it is, and the last thing I need is a nosy neighbor lurking nearby.”