Joan Hess - Poisoned Pins

Peter nodded distractedly, his eyes darting from cat to cat and his forehead creased as if it had been raked by sharp claws. “I don’t get this,” he said under his breath. “I’d go crazy after ten minutes in this place. It’s so…

“Pink?” I suggested, wondering if he was so unsettled that he inadvertently might pass along a few official tidbits. We amateur sleuths must be ever vigilant to take advantage of any momentary weakness. “I didn’t know Jean well, but she was the one I’d have said was not a pink person. She had a brittleness about her, and certainly not an easygoing, pastel personality. Either I was mistaken in my judgment, or she’s gone to extremes to present herself in a particular light.” I paused delicately, then continued in a vague, musing voice, “It wasn’t a simple hit-and-run, was it? Whoever was driving made sure she was dead. I suppose we’ll find out who it was when you find out whose car it is.”

“Yeah,” Peter said as he studied the room as though it were a museum reproduction from an extraterrestrial culture. “This sort of thing usually involves a drunk driver who suspects he hit something, backs up for a better look, drives into the nearest tree, and flees on foot. He’ll turn himself in at the station in the morning, deeply repentant but nevertheless accompanied by his father’s attorney, and eventually be let off with a fat fine, probation, and enough community service to cause minor inconvenience. Even with a suspended license, he’ll be driving that same day and drinking that night.”

“Who reported the accident?”

“We got an anonymous call, maybe from the driver himself, who might not have been sure the girl was dead.”

I looked at Jean’s face in one of the photographs, but now saw it dappled with blood, the eyes glassy, the mouth crooked. “How could he not know he’d killed her?”

“It was dark, and he was drunk and frightened. It happens all too often on back roads and even on the better-lit highways. A guy has car trouble and starts walking along the shoulder to find help, or a drunk steps out in front of a speeding car.”

Jorgeson came into the room. “Aunt Mellie isn’t home, but we’ve got something on the car. It’s registered to James Wray of Bethel Hills, which is a little town in the bottom corner of the state.”

“As in Debbie Anne Wray,” I said. “The girl who occupies the room noticeably lacking Kappa spirit. She’s the one who was knocked down by a prowler several nights ago, or claimed she was.”

This was of interest, naturally, and I related the recent events, glossing over my reluctance to be drawn into a quagmire of cuteness. “I can’t remember the woman’s name,” I concluded, “but she’s the wife of the law school dean. She’s also some kind of alumna adviser, so I suppose she might have the names and addresses of the girls’ families.”

Peter sent Jorgeson to work on it, then gestured for me to follow him out of Jean’s room. “What can you tell me about the Wray girl? Do you have any theories why she’d want to hurt the victim-or where she might be at this moment?”

“Debbie Anne told me that Jean gave her a bad time, but I failed to spot any flicker of diabolical desire to seek revenge in the alley because of it. She’s a limp, impassive girl, more likely to sit in a corner and whimper than to do something violent.” I shuddered as once again Jean’s face forced its way into my mind, and I halted and leaned against the wall to steady myself. “As for her whereabouts, I doubt she’s out on a date. You might try the library if it hasn’t closed.”

“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?” Winkle 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 afr 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 dear7 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 tranquility. I can’t tell you how lovely it was to be all by myself for a few hours.”