Joan Hess - Dear Miss Demeanor

“I spent most of the day in Weiss’s office, but it was a waste of time. Jorgeson says he feels more acned with each hour we spend in that damn place, and I’m beginning to feel the same way. I don’t know how anyone can stand it.”

“The teachers are a sincere lot. They’ve got to be dedicated to put up with the bureaucracy and low pay. There was an odd conversation today during lunch, by the way.” I told him about Sherwood’s crack and Jerry Finley’s retort. “Both of them seem to have secrets that Weiss knew and was using to needle them. Did you find anything about either of them in the personnel files?”

“Nothing that I intend to repeat to a civilian who is not sticking her lovely nose into things that are off-limits.”

He made a amatory lunge for the civilian, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Then you did find something,” I said excitedly. “What was it-criminal records? Falsified credentials? Accusations from parents about incompetency? Was it something serious enough that one of the two would actually poison Weiss to stop him from exposing it?”

“There was nothing significant in anyone’s file. Okay?” He tried a feint and a second lunge, but I slithered from under his arm and gave him a cool look.

“If you think I believe that, Peter, then you underestimate me. You will regret it, especially when I solve this case and prove Miss Parchester innocent of everything, from embezzlement to sloppy bookkeeping to murder. Your aversion to sharing information may slow me down, but it won’t stop me.”

“Would being locked up as a material witness stop you?”

“Not on your life.” Which is precisely what it would cost him, along with beer, sympathy (should it be proffered at some future date), successful lunges, and incredibly witty conversation with a red-haired bookseller. He wouldn’t dare.

The school was closed the next day for Weiss’s funeral. Caron and I attended, as did a large crowd of faculty members and a fair number of students. The minister intoned the phrases, Cheryl Anne and her mother sniffled into sodden tissues, and Jorgeson (Peter’s minion) watched impassively for hysterical, guilt-inspired confessions. We were at last dismissed, our ritual imperatives satisfied. Afterward, Caron announced she intended to spend the afternoon at Inez’s house in the pursuit of algebraic mastery. She departed in a self-righteous glow that failed to impress me.

I decided to see if Miss Parchester had recovered from my last visit. I doubted I would be allowed to speak to her, but it seemed as good a plan as any on a lovely autumn day. I changed out of basic drab and drove out to Happy Meadows, determined to storm the bastion, or at least request an audience.

To my surprise, the guard let me in after a perfunctory search of car and purse. Person was not mentioned. I parked under a yellow oak and went inside, wondering if the inmates had taken over the hospital and declared a holiday from Anabuse and cucumber sandwiches. The sight of Matron shattered my fantasy.

“Well,” she said with a frigid smile, “have we decided to bring our patient back so that we can try to recoup what ground we’ve lost?”

“We have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve come to speak to Miss Parchester.” A sinking feeling crept over me as I studied Matron’s less-than-cordial expression. “You haven’t lost her, have you?”

“We do not lose patients.”

“Do we misplace them?”

“It is possible that Miss Parchester has seen fit to leave Happy Meadows without being dismissed by her attending physician. It is most improper for her to do so, and she must return immediately so that the paperwork can be completed and her bill finalized. The insurance work alone takes hours to process.

“When did Miss Parchester leave, and how on earth did she get past the goon at the gate?”

Matron cracked a little around the edges. “We don’t know exactly. We are certain she did not exit through the gate, since it is always locked at ten o’clock. Her room was empty this morning. She had arranged some pillows under her blanket to give the impression that she was sleeping peacefully, and I fear the night staff did not actually enter her room after midnight rounds. They have been reprimanded, and there will be notations made on their permanent records.”

“But Miss Parchester managed to creep out of here at some point during the night and scale a ten-foot fence?” I said incredulously. “It’s ten miles to town, and it was damn chilly last night. Did she have a coat? Have the grounds been searched? Did you call the police?”

My voice may have peaked on the final question, for the white-coated doctor came out of his office to investigate the uproar. When he saw me, he stopped and pointed his finger at me. “You are the woman who claimed to be an attorney! You put my patient in hysterics for several hours after your visit, and undermined hours of intensive therapy. I’m sure your visit was responsible for her subsequent actions. What have you done with her?”

“I haven’t done anything with her, buddy. You people are supposed to take care of her, not allow her to stumble away on a cold, dark night. You’d better pray she didn’t fall in a ditch somewhere and freeze to death! Then you’ll have more attorneys around here than orderlies with butterfly nets and nurses straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” I took a deep breath and ordered myself to stop frothing at the mouth. “Now, what have you done to find her and get her back?”

“Doctor has done everything possible,” the Matron began ominously. I presumed she’d seen the aforementioned movie-and rooted for the head nurse. “He has followed policy.”

Doctor’s eyes avoided mine, and his fingers intertwined until they resembled a tangle of albino worms. “Thank you, Matron. I have indeed done everything to locate the patient. We have sent attendants out to search the estate, but we have nearly two hundred acres of meadows and woods. We fear the presence of the police may frighten the patient if she is hiding in the underbrush, so we have not yet called them.”

I was torn between demanding they call the police and agreeing that they shouldn’t, self-preservation being one of my primary instincts. My conscience finally won. “You’d better call the police immediately; your patient may be wandering down some back road in a daze. Ask for Lieutenant Rosen. He’s been wanting to speak to Miss Parchester

Doctor, Matron, and I exchanged uneasy looks. Doctor took a folded slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “This was found on her pillow this morning during six o’clock rounds. Perhaps you can make some sense of it.”

The spidery scrawl was hard to read, but I made out references to Bernstein, Woodward, and freedom of the press. I sank down on a ladderback chair and propped my face in my hands. Miss Emily Parchester, I bleakly realized, had taken up investigative reporting. Her reputation and her recipe for brandied peach compote were at stake. She was determined to expose a murderer and thus clear her name, along with the judge’s. But where was she now-and what was she doing?

I jerked myself up. “Before you call the police, I need to make one call. In private.”

Doctor escorted me to his office. I dialed Inez’s number, praying the girls would still be there. Inez’s mother, a bewildered woman who has no inkling of her daughter’s antics, assured me that they were in Inez’s room, and soon I had Caron on the line.

I told her what Miss Parchester had done, then asked her to go to the escapee’s neighborhood and watch for her to amble down the sidewalk in pink bedroom slippers. After warning her about the likely presence of a policeman on a similar assignment, I told her to call me at home if anything happened.