Poisoned Pins (9 page)

“I'll need a description.”

I was doing my best to paint a colorful picture of a girl less animated than the faded carpet in the hallway when we heard a scream from the front part of the house. Peter hurried past me, careened around the corner, and vanished. Having become somewhat desensitized to the Kappas' screams, I trailed after him with
more decorum and arrived in the lounge in time to see Winkie clutch her neck.

“Men are not allowed in the private rooms,” she gasped as her eyes rolled back and she crumpled to the floor.

“Well, at least we know where two of them are,” I said as I knelt beside Winkie and patted her cheek. At my request, Jorgeson went to the kitchen and returned with a damp dishtowel; I toyed with the idea of using it on myself, then relented and placed it across my patient's forehead. “You must have scared her pretty badly, Jorgeson. What'd you do to her?”

Peter glared at me as if I were in some way responsible for this most recent disaster, as well as everything else that had occurred of late, including but not limited to the breakdown of the Middle East peace talks and the hole in the ozone layer. Barely able to spit out the words, he said, “And this is . . . ?”

“Mrs. Winklebury, the housemother.” Irritated by his unseemly attitude, I sat back on my heels and looked up at him with a bland smile. “But I'm quite sure she'll insist that you call her Winkie. There's some sort of obscure tradition that all the housemothers must have fuzzy-wuzzy nicknames. The cats, on the other hand, are invariably called Katie.” I noticed Jorgeson was scribbling notes and added, “That's Katie the Kappa Kitten, to be precise, immortalized on those zillions of construction-paper cutouts plastered on every surface in this residence. If science is unable to meet the challenge, they'll continue to proliferate at an alarming rate and soon we shall be awash in them.”

Peter bristled so fiercely I could see the dear little hairs on his neck rise. “Thank you for your insight into sorority traditions. Perhaps it's time for you to—”

“What happened?” Winkie said groggily, thus rescuing
me from a temporary eviction, if not a permanent exile.

“You fainted.” I helped her to her feet and guided her to the nearest sofa. “Would you like some water?”

She shook her head. “I'll be fine. It was so silly of me to overreact that way, but with all these prowlers outside the house and the problems among the girls and my medication, I'm a nervous wreck. I simply don't”—she dropped her voice to a noticeably fermented whisper—”understand why these men are roaming all over the house. Who are they and how did they get inside?” She pointed a stubby finger at Peter and Jorgeson. “You cannot remain in the lounge! It's not allowed, not allowed at all!”

I glanced at Peter, who nodded at me and herded Jorgeson out to the foyer, where they began to talk in low and, unfortunately, inaudible rumbles.

Winkie deflated into the upholstery, her complexion as gray as her dress. “I do hope I wasn't too brusque,” she said dispiritedly. “Because of allergies, I take rather strong antihistamines, and they add to my anxiety. I haven't had a night off since spring break, you know, and I decided to slip out and go to the movies, to be surrounded by people of my own generation instead of these . . . girls.” Her small, childlike hands shot into the air, and saliva dripped down her chin. “But what should I see as I approach the theater? A long line of high school and college students, all pushing and braying and behaving as if each and every one of them had been raised by wolves.”

“Oh dear,” I murmured, bemused by her lack of interest in the presence of Peter, Jorgeson, and me in the house. Her initial reaction had been strong enough to evoke a bout of the vapors, but now she seemed much more concerned about justifying her absence than demanding explanations.

“Sitting in the theater with them was out of the question,” she continued. “I ended up taking a nice, quiet drive up on the mountain, where I could admire the lights below and enjoy the tranquillity. I can't tell
you how lovely it was to be all by myself for a few hours.”

“I'm sorry the officer frightened you.”

She clutched my arm. “Officer? That man who was here? I heard a noise in the lounge and came to investigate, fully expecting to find the girls playing bridge or studying together. With the exception of the cooks and waiters, men are never allowed in the back of the house. National has very strict rules about that. If one of the girls allows her date to so much as step across the threshold, she'll find herself facing the standards committee within twenty-four hours. One of my most sacred duties is to accompany any repairman who needs to go beyond the public rooms.”

Her antihistamines must have been industrial-strength, I thought as I waited for her to return to the issue at hand. Either that, or whatever kind of training she'd endured to become a housemother included a partial lobotomy. “National” was sounding less like a committee of conscientious alumnae and more like a squadron of Gestapo agents in pink silk suits.

I took a deep breath and said, “I think you'd better hear what happened tonight. There's been an accident, and I'm afraid one of the girls . . . was run down in the alley behind the house.”

“Run down? What do you mean? I don't understand what you're saying, Claire! Is she dead? Who?”

I gave her a skimpy account of what had happened, admitted we'd been in the four bedrooms in search of information concerning Jean's next of kin, and omitted to mention that the car registration had been traced to someone who coincidentally shared the same last name and hometown of a Kappa pledge.

“Then it was a senseless accident?” Covering her face with her hands, Winkie 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 Winkie 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 the 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 rekeyed 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 doorkey. 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, Winkie?” 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.” Winkie 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. Malloy?”

Beginning to feel like a cassette player, I told her what had happened to Jean.