Joan Hess - Dear Miss Demeanor

“And you didn’t add anything to it?” I continued, inwardly wincing at the necessity of grilling an old lady, even if it was for her own good.

“No, I followed the recipe religiously.” The faded blue eyes narrowed. “Was there something wrong with it? A funny taste or peculiar odor? The peaches were a few days old, and of course they’re not as fresh as they were when one bought them directly from the farmer who came to the house in his wagon, but-”

I interrupted to tell her as gently as I could about the lethal consequences of the compote. Her teacup shattered on the flagstone surface as she turned ashen. A cucumber sandwich fell unnoticed in her lap, and then tumbled onto her fuzzy pink slipper.

“Surely you speak in jest, Mrs. Malloy! I’ve made hundreds of gallons of my special peach compote in my life, and no one has ever accused me-accused me of-of poisoning-murdering someone with-with-oh, dear!”

She stood up, looking frail and ill. The cucumber sandwich was smashed to a white circle as she fled inside, leaving me alone on the terrace.

I popped the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and started for my car. A grim matron stopped me at the front door.

“You’re the one who upset us, aren’t you? Who are you and what did you say to us? We’re beyond coherence, and I cannot get a word out of us. We are likely to have a relapse at any moment, just when we’re beginning to become nicely dried out and calm.”

“I told us that a certain police detective thought we might have poisoned our boss with peach compote,” I explained politely. “If we have any sense at all, we’ll keep us out of sight until this thing is cleared up. We hope that we won’t have to tell anyone that we’re at Happy Meadows, but we have a low pain threshold, and they may force us to talk.”

I left her to ponder the pronouns and went to my car. When I arrived at home, it was blessedly still. I learned from a scrawled note that Caron and Inez had gone out, destination unspecified. I heated a Lean Cuisine, painted my toenails, ate, and tried to watch television, which wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances. I was staring at a blank screen when the doorbell rang.

Peter came in, his face lined with fatigue. I gave him a glass of wine and sat down beside him. “Did we-I mean you, find any cyanide in the building?”

“We found cyanide compounds in the journalism darkroom, in the custodian’s supply closet, in the secretary’s desk to kill roaches, and in both the biology and chemistry labs. We also found a jar of rat poison in the girls’ locker room and another in the band room. And another in the art room.

“Lots of cyanide.”

“There is enough cyanide in the high school to kill off the entire student body and most of Farberville,” Peter said, sighing. “We still have a few other rooms to search, and we’ll probably find an adequate supply for the state. I thought poisons were supposed to be kept away from children.”

“I’m very sorry the murderer didn’t use some obscure South American tree sap.” I toyed with an errant curl above his ear. It never failed to distract him, and I wanted to ease him in to a more pliable frame of mind. “Have you found Miss Parchester yet?”

“No, she hasn’t come home. One of the neighbors saw her leave in a van, but had no idea what kind of van it was. We have an officer waiting at her apartment.”

I tucked my feet under me and tried to look mildly sympathetic, as opposed to extremely curious. I did not ask if the van driver had reflective lenses and the warmth of a drill sergeant. “Did you learn anything of interest in the statements?”

“With a few exceptions, everyone seemed eager to assist us. Now I am well-informed of the bell schedule and the morning class times, the procedure with blue slips, the absentee reports, the alternate bus routes on snow days, and I know more than anyone should about computerized personal grade records. I also heard about Miss Parchester’s little problem with the journalism accounts.”

“All a misunderstanding.”

“Isn’t it interesting how you were available to substitute in the midst of the crisis? One would almost be inclined to think that your presence was along the lines of calling in the Mounties..

“As a member of the community and a concerned parent, I was merely helping out by agreeing to substitute,” I said. Lied, actually-but only because he was looking so damned smug. “The students must have supervision. The perpetuity of the physical structure demands it.”

“And you weren’t trying to delve into the accounts?”

Ah, the burden of a reputation for brilliant deduction. I considered my next move as I refilled our wine glasses. I opted to delve into his accounts-of the crime.

“Miss Parchester left the journalism room at ten o’clock, and presumably put the jar in the refrigerator in the lounge,” I commented in a conversational tone. “The jar was unattended for the next half hour, until I arrived. After that, no one came into the lounge.”

“That’s the time period we’re interested in,” Peter said. “The French teacher-ah, Evelyn West, said that she went into the lounge toward the end of second period for a cup of coffee. She saw the jar in the refrigerator, but did not realize that it was the infamous compote until later. That was at ten-fifteen or so.”

“She didn’t see anyone while she was there?”

“Her student teacher came in for a few seconds, but did not enter the kitchenette. Apparently, she comes in to cry on a regular basis.” He gave me a puzzled look. “Does that make sense to you?”

“No, but I’ve witnessed it. Who else came to the lounge?”

“Bernice Dort, the vice-principal, came by for a soda, and our victim came in with her. Mrs. West says that they were unaware of her presence in the ladies room, but refused to elaborate. Miss Dort confirms the time.”

“No one else came into the lounge?”

“According to the statements, no. You arrived at the beginning of the third period at about ten-thirty, right? You and Mrs. West were there until everyone arrived for the potluck, and no one else could have slipped into the kitchen to spike the compote.”

I wrinkled my nose and tried to remember. “I think that’s accurate,” I admitted. “But what about the period from ten to ten-fifteen? Was anyone in the lounge then?”

Peter downed the last drop of wine and stood up. “No one has admitted being there, except for the custodian, who says he came in to clean the rest rooms.

“And he has cyanide in his closet! Pitts is the murderer, Peter; I’m sure of it! He’s the slimiest specimen of reptile I’ve ever seen, and he slinks around the building like a mongrel.”

“But he doesn’t have a motive.”

“Yes, he does. Weiss was getting static from the teachers in the basement. Pitts hasn’t been cleaning the classrooms for quite some time, and the teachers were beginning to get tired of the dirt. I know Miss Platchett was in Weiss’s office earlier to demand that Pitts be terminated, preferably with extreme prejudice.”

“That’s not much of a motive,” he pointed out. “Did Weiss agree to fire him?”

“It didn’t sound like it, from the report I overheard. But that doesn’t mean that Pitts might not be eager to prevent Weiss from taking drastic measures at a later date.”

“By poisoning all the teachers in the lounge?”

“Maybe not. Miss Parchester wouldn’t have risked it, either. Her dearest friends and staunchest supporters were likely to nibble the compote. She’s hardly a Borgia sort.”

I earned a gaze that blew straight from the North Pole. “I wouldn’t know,” he murmured, “since I haven’t been able to locate the woman for a statement. No one seems to know where she is. Her friends don’t know, her neighbors don’t know, and her brother in Boise, Idaho, doesn’t know.”