Joan Hess - Poisoned Pins

I didn’t feel quick or clever, and I was tired of the grenade game. If I’d heard anything worthy of my analytical attention, I had no idea what it was. Smothering a yawn, I bade them good night and left, not caring which of them was blown to smithereens, metaphorically or otherwise.

“I hear you went out with another man last night,” Peter said as he came into the Book Depot. During the school year, it was closed on Sunday afternoons, but I was too desperate to risk missing a single sale, and at that particular moment I was considering the possibility of adding a section of Greek-related items. Not virgin olive oil and ouzo, but cutesy coffee mugs, visors, clipboards, and pastel stationery, all with appropriate letterheads. Other stores in town carried that sort of thing, but I was the closest to the campus and might do well. Then again, it would be challenging to put on makeup every morning if I were unable to look at myself in the mirror.

“I’m impressed with the breadth of your surveillance,” I said evenly. “Where have you been? I was beginning to suspect you and Jorgeson were sharing romantic moments at the cabin. The mere thought of such treachery is what drove me to the arms of another man-that, and the need to avoid my daughter until she regains her grip on fiscal reality.”

“That could take years.” Peter propped his elbows on the counter. He wore a cotton sweater rather than a suit, but his cheeks were smooth and I caught a whiff of the after-shave I’d given him for his birthday. After a moment, I realized I’d given him the sweater for Christmas. The rest of his clothing was of his own doing; a lady never proffers trousers or underwear, and the cost of his shoes was comparable to my rent.

“Jorgeson’s not bad,” he continued, “but his ankles are bony and he sweats. So who’s this guy?”

“Merely one of those potential millionaires one meets on the street every day. As soon as his book hits the best-seller list, he’s going to whisk me away to some swanky resort with an employee whose sole duty is to swat mosquitoes.”

“I also heard you called 911 last night, and then the campus police, who responded promptly to your latest claim to have seen a prowler at that blasted sorority house. You might as well move in and save yourself the bother of dashing over there every hour.”

I told him about the man I’d seen in the window, adding that I was convinced he was the same man who had stopped in the street the night Jean Hall was killed. “And when I described him to Winkie, she reacted as if she knew him,” I concluded, doing my best to hide my frustration.

“But refused to share the name with you?” He flashed his perfect white teeth at me. “How uncooperative of her. I’ll go by tomorrow and see if she’ll be more forthright with an officer of the law. Is there anything else you’ve discovered and failed to share with us?”

I thought about attempting to strike a bargain with him, but I had a feeling he might interpret my offer as blackmail rather than a display of camaraderie. I related the gist of Debbie Anne’s call, and said, “She sounded genuinely worried about something Jean was going to do to her, and I doubt she was bluffing. However, I keep characterizing her as a soggy-nosed ninny, but she did graduate from high school and was accepted at Farber College, so she can’t be totally devoid of wits. Those who know her better than I seem to think she’s devious and deceitful, and capable of manipulation. For all I know, she could be a contemporary Mata Han with a secret agenda that forebodes ill for the future Kappa Theta Eta alumnae pool. Maybe she hired this prowler and staged her encounter with him to fool us, gave him her keys, and sent him to the house last night to…”

“Plant bombs? Bug the bedrooms? Kill the cat?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered, unamused by his condescending attitude. There I was, willing to share my ideas and pass along information, and in return, I was rewarded with smirky intonations, delicately arched eyebrows, and those damn teeth. It was time for a new game plan. “What progress have you made? Did you identify any fingerprints in the car?”

“With the exception of some unremarkable smudges, they belong to the person who reputedly occupied Debbie Anne Wray’s bedroom at the sorority house, used her toothbrush, and placed the photograph of her parents on the desk. The blood on the bumper, hood, and tires matches that of the victim. A shard of glass from the broken headlight was taken from the body. The prosecuting attorney won’t file charges until we have her in custody and can finalize our report, but even if it was an accident, he’ll probably opt for negligent homicide and leaving the scene of a personal injury-both felonies. No one admits to having any idea where she is, so we’re just waiting for her to get tired of hiding. I suppose we could put a tap on your telephone.”

“Not without a court order signed by Sandra Day O’Connor. If Debbie Anne calls again, I’ll persuade her to tell me where she is and you’ll be the first to know. But I am not going to allow you to eavesdrop on my calls or monitor my private life as if I were a criminal. How did you know that I had dinner with a man last night?”

“One of the desk sergeants was at the restaurant and said something about it,” Peter said. He had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed to be caught gossiping, which gave me a measure of satisfaction. “I was teasing, Claire. You’re perfectly free to see anyone you want, or date other men, or spend the weekend with them. It’s increasingly clear that our relationship isn’t going in the direction I’d hoped it might. Maybe seeing other people would help both of us figure out what’s for the best.”

“Maybe it would,” I said without inflection, inwardly appalled at the thought of even a second dinner with my science fiction hippie, who was harmless (when not discoursing on his manuscript) but hardly as stimulating as Peter. Rather than allow the conversation to lapse into something more suitable for a romance novel, I told him I had work to do and he huffed away.

I did not burst into tears, but I admit I sniffled just a bit as I dusted the self-help racks with more than usual vigor. My predicament was of my own making, which made it all the more irritating, and by the time Caron and Inez came into the bookstore, I’d dusted every book, swept the floor, cleaned out the drawer beneath the cash register, and rearranged the racks in order to determine if I could add sorority and fraternity paraphernalia.

“Menopause,” Caron explained to Inez. “Her face is red and she’s drenched in sweat. Furthermore, she’s been behaving very erratically lately, and-”

“Help me move this table,” I interrupted in a glacial voice, struggling not to imagine the warm satisfaction I would receive if I throttled her on the spot.

Inez blinked soberly at me. “My mother started having hot flashes in her mid-forties, Mrs. Malloy. She said she felt as if she were wrapped in an electric blanket set as high as it would go. Sometimes she’d start crying for no reason, but the doctor gave her estrogen and it really worked.”

The intensity of my scowl provoked them into mutely helping me drag a heavy oak table across the room and situate it in front of the window. “I am not having hot flashes,” I said, panting. “Peter and I had a disagreement, and I was perturbed. I’m not even forty yet, for pity’s sake, and I do not care for all this unsolicited advice from teenage girls whose knowledge of medical matters is gleaned from soap operas. Do you understand?”

“Whatever.” Caron wandered toward the office. “You had a call earlier this afternoon, by the way. Some man, but he didn’t leave his name or number.” As the door squeaked, she added with ill-disguised relish, “He said you’d better mind your own business or you’d be sorry.”