Joan Hess - Poisoned Pins

He pointed at a wide white car that was partially buried in a tangle of brush. “The lab boys are on their way, but we’re fairly certain that’s the vehicle, and we’re running the plates right now. A brown substance on the front bumper appears to be blood, and a headlight is broken.”

“But she was…“ I couldn’t find the word, much less say it aloud in the presence of the badly violated body.

Peter put his hands on my shoulders and drew me across the alley, where he could wrap his arms around me without risking grins from his cohorts. “The initial impact most likely killed her instantly, or at least knocked her unconscious. Go on upstairs, Claire. As soon as I’m done, I’ll join you for a drink. I have to deal with this, but I don’t like it any better than you, especially when it’s a kid.”

“What about the girls in the house, and the housemother? Why aren’t they out here? How could they not see the lights? I don’t understand why-”

He dug his fingers into my back until I stopped sputtering at his shoulder. “There’s no one home at the moment. It’s Friday night, so they may all be out on dates or working late at the library or whatever sorority girls do on weekends. We’ll stay here until someone returns and we can get information about the victim. Now that we have a name, I’ll send an officer to see if he can roust the registrar. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

I was still battling nausea, and the idea of collapsing on my sofa with a cup of tea was enough to make me giddy. I hadn’t liked Jean Hall. Then again, I thought with an explosion of frigid anger, my antipathetic opinion hadn’t given someone tacit permission to kill her She hadn’t deserved to be run down so brutally, so dispassionately.

It was not yet time for tea. “Listen, Peter,” I said, “all four of the girls were staying in a wing off the lounge. I don’t know which room was Jean’s, but I can tell with a quick look. Maybe you can find an address book or some correspondence that will indicate where her parents live. They should be notified as soon as possible.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said gloomily. “I’ll send for a campus cop to unlock the house for us. They’ve already made it clear that the alley is city property and in our jurisdiction, but they’ll assist us.”

“If no one’s in the house and it’s locked, she must have taken her key with her. Did someone check her pockets?”

“Earlier, for identification. Her pockets are empty, and as you heard while so charmingly eavesdropping, her purse hasn’t turned up yet. Campus security can be here in a minute or two.” He told me to wait where I was, then reentered the brightly lit arena of activity to confer with the medical examiner, the squad from the crime lab, and the medics.

A disgruntled campus policeman arrived with a key, and shortly thereafter, Peter and I entered the house. Jorgeson followed with a flashlight, which proved necessary when we found ourselves in a dark kitchen. Aluminum pans and bowls glinted dully from hooks along the ceiling, and stacks of plastic glasses reflected slivers of orange and blue. A vast refrigerator droned unsteadily.

I found a light switch, and led them through the dining room to the lounge, and after a moment’s consideration down a corridor replete with a blank bulletin board and tiers of mail cubicles, all empty. When Rebecca had given me the tour, she’d pointed out the hallway lined with four bedroom doors on one side, and on the opposing side a pink-tiled bathroom and a closet used by the custodial staff.

The first door was locked. I stepped back, and Jorgeson fiddled with a pick until we heard a ping. He opened the door and switched on the light. I knew it wasn’t a matter of breaking and entering, not with a pair of cops accompanying me, but I felt as guilty as a dieter with a doughnut as I went inside the room.

It wasn’t much larger than my office, and contained a narrow bed, a built-in closet, a dresser, and a desk cluttered with all the paraphernalia necessary to produce the flawless face of a Kappa Theta Eta. Clothes were piled on the bed, draped over a chair, and discarded on the floor Mixed among jeans and shorts were pink cashmere sweaters and pink silk blouses, lacy pink panties, a single fuzzy pink bedroom slipper, pink sweatpants, and a pink-and-white-striped umbrella.

I wasn’t surprised to see a stuffed cat on the bed, dozens of pink paper cats taped to the walls and around the mirror, and on the desk, a necklace with a silver cat charm. Beside it was a framed photograph of a group of girls positioned around a cat, all of them smiling brightly except for their hostage, who looked panicky.

“What’s with this cat thing?” Peter asked from the doorway, unwilling or possibly unable to encroach on this feline sanctuary.

“You really don’t want to know,” I said. “This must be Rebecca’s room. These are scripts, and the textbooks have to do with theater history.”

We went to the next room, which had a distressingly similar decor and a selection of psychology textbooks. On the bed was a My Beautiful Self manual and strips of paper that reminded me of paint sample cards. “Pippa’s room,” I said as we retreated.

While Jorgeson plied his magic on the third door, I related what little I knew about Rebecca and Pippa. We entered the room. The cat motif was nearly nonexistent, with only a single pink paper cat taped to the wall and nary a kitty on the pillow. The bed was made, the desk surface pristine, the floor bare, the lone photograph that of a middle-aged couple with squinty eyes and unsmiling mouths. The room had the austerity of a convent cell, and perhaps slightly less warmth.

“This is Debbie Anne’s room,” I said with a sigh. I picked up an envelope and noted the return address. The town was unfamiliar, but the state is riddled with towns that are no more than a few forlorn houses clumped around a post office. “She’s the one who’s not Kappa material, from all accounts.”

In the last room, the cats were back in full force on the bed, the mirror frame, the walls, and the back of the door, and even on the personal computer on the desk. There were dozens of photographs of Jean, each with a different boy wrapped around her and grinning drunkenly at the camera. Slogans on their T-shirts proclaimed the occasions to be such dignified affairs as Purple Cow Madness Night and Sin City. Jean had managed to keep at least some of her clothes in the closet, and her books were aligned on the shelf above the desk. She had a portable television on a plastic crate, presumably out of deference to her exalted position as house president, and an extensive collection of stuffed cats piled on the bed.

Peter and Jorgeson were beyond response by that time. They both looked so intensely uncomfortable that I felt sorry for them. Jorgeson glanced down the hallway as if he were anticipating an attack by a blustery pink coed or a rabid cat. I had no problem empathizing with their disquietude, having experienced it myself.

“This is Jean’s room,” I said patiently. “Do you want to look for her home address, or shall I do it for you?”

My offer was ignored. While I sat on the bed and watched Peter search through the drawers and Jorgeson paw through the closet, I mentally replayed my conversations with Jean. She would have made a fine lawyer, I thought as I remembered how deftly she’d maligned Debbie Anne with only a few facetiously concerned observations and a delicate sneer or two.

“Here’s an address book, Lieutenant.” Jorgeson held up a small leather book and flipped through the pages. “She didn’t write down her parents’ address or telephone number, but there’s a number for Aunt Mellie in Little Rock. You want me to find a telephone and try it?”