Joan Hess - Poisoned Pins

“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, Winkle 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 Winkle 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?”