by Joan Hess
“How is Miss Zuckerman?” I asked. “Has she recovered?”
“She’s still in the hospital, and the doctor wants to keep her a few more days. She hasn’t been well for several years, you know, because of female problems, and her strength isn’t what it ought to be.” The Fury perched on the edge of a chair, her back rigidly erect, her knees glued together, and her ankles crossed at a proper angle. She looked dreadfully uncomfortable, especially to someone sprawled on a sofa. “We are taking up a collection to send her flowers,” she continued in a thin waver, “although you certainly wouldn’t be expected to donate anything since you hardly know her.”
“But I would be delighted,” I said. It was one of the perils of aligning oneself with any group, from secretarial pools to construction workers’ unions. Someone’s always being born, married, or buried-all of which require a financial contribution from coworkers. “Is there also a collection to send flowers for Mr. Weiss’s funeral?”
Mae Bagby turned pale, and the teacup began to rattle as though we were in the early stages of an earthquake. “Bernice is taking care of that, I’m sure. Bernice is very efficient about that sort of thing. You might inquire in the office later in the day, or wait until there is a mimeographed note. There is one almost every day during sixth period. The collection for Tessa is a more personal gesture from those of us who frequent this lounge, our little group.”
One of whom was apt to have poisoned Weiss. Before I could mention it, Miss Bagby stood up and drifted into the kitchenette to dispose of her cup and saucer. She then visited the ladies room (I hoped Pitts had retired from peeping), gave me another timid smile and a cozy wave, and left the lounge in a flurry of faint creaks from her crepe-soled shoes.
Once she was gone, I found myself wondering if she had really been there, or if I had hallucinated the presence of a shade, a ghost of teachers past. All schools were likely to have a few in the darkest corridors, moaning at the transitory fads and disintegrating moral standards. Rattling lockers at midnight. Reading faded files of students long since departed, in both senses of the word.
I was getting carried away with my Dickensian reverie when I was saved by the bell. Evelyn and Sherwood came in the lounge, followed by Mrs. Platchett and Mae Bagby, who was still insubstantial enough to warrant a second look. Once everyone opened Tupperware, took sandwiches from plastic envelopes, fetched drinks, and found seats around the table, I asked Evelyn if she had reported the custodian to Miss Don.
“Yes, I did, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to him, and I really don’t understand.” She told the others what we had discovered during homeroom, which produced a considerable amount of outrage from all except Sherwood, who looked smugly amused.
“What did Bernice say?” Mrs. Platchett demanded.
Evelyn sighed. “She was horrified, naturally. Then she said things were too chaotic to deal with the problem immediately, and once we settled down she would inform the proper authorities. I presumed she was the proper authority. I put tape over the hole, but I won’t feel comfortable in the ladies room until Pitts is gone-permanently.”
“Nor shall I,” said Mrs. Platchett. “I am surprised that Bernice did not react with more forcefulness. Surprised and disappointed, I must add. I could never determine why Mr. Weiss tolerated Pitts’s slovenly work and disgusting presence, not to mention the possibility that he was corrupting some of our students. One must surmise Mr. Weiss had his reasons. Bernice should know better.”
“What is Pitts rumored to be doing with students?” I asked.
Sherwood waved his pipe at me. “It’s all speculation, of course, and the man has never been caught in flagrante delicto, but it is whispered in the hallways that Pitts operates a major retail operation from his lair. Not only is it said that he peddles ordinary cigarettes and alcohol, but also that he has such things available as funny cigarettes and contraceptives. Names of abortionists for students caught with their panties down.”
“And this is tolerated?” I said, appalled by both the information and Sherwood’s hlage tone of voice. “The custodian is allowed to sell illegal things to the students and send them to back-alley abortionists-and no one objects?” I stared at the teachers busy with their lunches. “Why hasn’t someone reported him to the police? Don’t you care?”
“I said those exact things,” Evelyn said. “We’ve all repeated the gossip over and over again to Weiss. He always promised to investigate. When we tried to follow up, he would say that there was no proof, and that he couldn’t fire Pitts or go to the police on the basis of idle gossip, especially from a bunch of students with big mouths and bigger imaginations.”
Mrs. Platchett nodded. “He went so far as to imply that we also had oversized imaginations. It was monstrously insulting to those of us who have dedicated ourselves to the education of youth, and I was forced to say so on more than one occasion. I even showed Mr. Weiss proof that Pitts went through the refrigerator during class time, touching our food with his germ-ridden hands and helping himself to whatever caught his fancy.”
I hadn’t exactly warmed up to Mrs. Platchett in the past few days, but I felt a good deal more kindly toward her now. “What did Mr. Weiss do?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Malloy. He did nothing.”
Miss Hart and her coach came in to the lounge, both aglow with young love and/or hunger. She greeted all of us with a warm smile, but Jerry continued into the kitchen and began to feed coins into the soda machine.
“I say, Finley,” Sherwood called, “we’re all dying to know what Weiss had on you. Be a good chap and share the secret with us. We swear we won’t say a word to Mrs. Malloy’s policeman.”
“Can it, Timmons,” growled a voice from the kitchenette.
Sherwood rolled his eyes in feigned surprise. “Cave canem. particularly those with sharp teeth and rabid temperaments.”
“Leave him alone, please,” Paula said earnestly. “It wasn’t anything important, and Jerry doesn’t want to talk about it. Mr. Weiss wasn’t going to do anything; he was just-being difficult about a minor issue.” She turned on the warm smile once again to convince us of her sincerity and unflagging faith in her coach. “Would anyone like some of my salad? I made the dressing myself.”
Jerry stomped out of the kitchenette with a bottle of soda and a brown bag. “Don’t you have a secret of your own, Timmons? Weiss’s comment about the library sounded as if he knew something about you-something you might not want to get spread around the school. Did you kill him to keep him quiet?”
“Or did you get him first?” Sherwood sneered.
“Really!” Mrs. Platchett gasped.
“Jerry!” Paula Hart whispered.
“Sherwood!” Evelyn West muttered.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mae Bagby sighed.
I, in contrast, did not make a sound. But I was scribbling notes on my mental clipboard faster than Miss Dort in her prime could have ever done. And praying I had every word down.
The remainder of the lunch period passed in silence. Each teacher tidied up and departed with noticeable haste. There were no companionable farewells. I made it through the rest of my classes without incident, although I cold-heartedly denied Bambi’s request that she and the staff be allowed to return to the printer’s to remind him the newspaper would not be forthcoming. The blue slips were too much to think about. My darling daughter kept her nose in her algebra book, pretending she was a motherless child. Thud and Cheryl Anne did not appear during their appointed hour; I marked them absent without a qualm.
During the last few minutes of the last class, a mimeographed page was delivered. It proved to be a missive from Miss Dort, containing information about the flower collection, a thinly-veiled threat not to miss the funeral, another about blue slips, and a final paragraph about the homecoming game and dance. Which was, I realized as a chill gripped me, slated for the immediate Friday. Miss Don would not spend the week in search of a better-qualified substitute, since she would be occupied with the dutie
s of assuming command, even if in a temporary capacity.
It was inescapable: I was going to chaperone the dance unless I solved the murder and resolved the journalism accounts in the next four days, in which case Miss Parchester could resume her duties and I could cower at my bookstore. It did not strike me as probable, considering the quantity of suspects, the wealth of opportunities, and the dearth of motives. I made a note to purchase shin guards and earplugs, not to mention a tranquilizer or two, and a stun gun, should the crowd go wild.
I was still brooding that evening when Peter came by. For reasons of his own, he was back to being Mr. Charm Himself He stirred up a little warmth (he can, if he wishes, be quite adept), then politely asked if he might be presumptuous enough to request beer and sympathy.
I opened the beer, reserving judgment about the sympathy until I figured out what he was up to. “Any luck in the investigation?”
“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.
SEVEN
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 mo
ther, 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.
Caron was enchanted with the idea of playing detective. She suggested a disguise; I ruled it out and suggested she pose as an innocent teenager. She announced that she would he utterly terrified to go alone. I agreed that Inez was the perfect co-detective for the stakeout. I refused to think up a cede word, then hung up in the middle of a melodramatic sigh.
When I came out of the office, Doctor was hovering nearby, his fingers in a hopeless snarl. “I suppose we’d better call the police,” he said, “even though the publicity will be most detrimental to our program. The newspapers will delight in hearing we’ve let a patient slip out of our care, particularly an elderly one in inadequate clothing, but I suppose it can he avoided no longer. I shall have the Matron place a call to this Lieutenant Rosen.’’
I shrugged a farewell and went out to my car. On the way home, I drove down Miss Parchester’s street and then past the high school. Several little old ladies were out cruising, but none of them were slipper-shod. I pulled up in front of the house, planning to wait by the telephone in case Caron or Miss Parchester called, but I could not force myself out of the car. I knew who the first caller would be, if he didn’t come by in person to harangue and harass me. Withholding evidence. Conspiracy to aid and abet an alleged felon. Bad attitude. Lack of trust. Tuts and sighs.
“Phooey,” I muttered as I pulled away from the curb and drove back to the high school. Maybe Miss Parchester would attempt to find sanctuary with one of her old chums, who was apt to be a comrade. if I could get in the building, I could get addresses from the files and make unexpected visits. It was preferable to positioning myself for the inevitable, tedious, sanctimonious lecture. Some of which, I admitted to myself, just might be justified, if one ignored the humane element. I wouldn’t, but others might.
