by Joan Hess
“Oh, you’ll have help.” Evelyn gave me a wry look. “I believe you’re assigned with Mr. Chippendale and Mr. Eugenia.”
“Wonderful,” I sighed. And I had alienated Peter, whose presence might have saved me from what threatened to be slightly worse than root-canal surgery done by a drunken dentist-in a bouncing jeep. Just when I needed a whiff of nitrous oxide.
Evelyn drove us to the faculty lot. We went to the gym, which was dripping with red-and-gold crepe paper, and glumly surveyed the battlefield. I presumed it would be strewn with bodies by midnight; all I could hope was that mine would not be included in the count.
Speakers the size of refrigerators were arranged in front of a low platform cluttered with beglittered guitars and an intricate formation of drums. The acned boys in the band huddled on one side, their eyes darting as if they anticipated attack or arrest. They had long, stringy hair and feral expressions. A droopy banner taped on the wall above them proclaimed them to be “Pout,” an ominously appropriate name. Evelyn and Sherwood wished me luck, then drifted away to their assigned posts elsewhere in the building, where they might not even be able to hear Pout’s best efforts to deafen us.
Mr. Chippendale came through the door, metal chairs under his arms. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Malloy, are you prepared for the dance?”
“Certainly. Mr. Chippendale. I’ve made a new will, consulted a neurologist about potential auditory nerve damage, and booked a private room at Happy Meadows.”
He gave me a startled look, then busied himself unfolding chairs along the wall. A grayish man with bifocals introduced himself as Erwin “Gene” Eugenia, Algebra and Trig, and took a stack of chairs to the opposite side of the vast room. Students drifted in to set up the refreshment table, all sober from the defeat at the hands (talons?) of the Starley City Bantams. I watched them carry in the punch bowl, reminding myself that I was assigned the formidable task of assuring their continued sobriety until the dance was done.
A short while later the gym began to swell with students. After a few false starts, Pout found its stride and broke into what was presumably their opening set. Mr. Chippendale took a post next to the stage, although I doubted he could isolate stray obscenities in the ululation that passed as lyrics. Mr. Eugenia stayed beside the punch bowl, leaving me to monitor the dancers for distance and the nondancers for discretion.
Once my ears grew accustomed to the volume, I realized I might survive. Some of the students from the journalism classes poke to me, or at least moved their mouths in what I interpreted as amiable discourse. I smiled politely, though blankly. No one asked me to dance, which was for the best since I had had no training in that particular mode of stylized warfare.
During a lull, I spotted Caron and Inez near the door. For the first time since the onslaught of puberty, my daughter looked timid and vulnerable; Inez appeared to be in the early stages of a seizure. After a beady look at a leather-clad hoodlum with an earring and fast hands, I joined them. “I didn’t see you two at the game.”
Caron regained some of her usual superciliousness. “You went to the football game, Mother? Whatever for?”
“I was coerced,” I admitted. “I sat with Mrs. West and Mr. Timmons in what I fear was the most vocal section of the bleachers. I suppose it was good practice for the decibel level in here.”
“Caron and I sold programs at the south gate,” Inez volunteered. “We turned in our money, then sat with Rhonda and some of the girls. Wasn’t the game just dreadful?”
“I thought so,” I said, suspecting our criteria were different. Pout roared into song once again; conversation was impossible. Caron grabbed Inez’s shoulder, and they hobbled away to find seats amidst the wallflowers.
Despite the lack of a victory, the kids seemed to be enjoying themselves. I was beginning to feel somewhat confident when Cheryl Anne swept through the door and stopped to survey the scene, her mouth a tight red rosebud and her hands clenched at her sides. Thud hovered behind her, clearly uncomfortable in her wake.
The dancers nearest the door halted in mid-gyration and backed off the floor to make a path that would have led straight to the throne, had there been one. I was mildly surprised no one had thought to bring a red carpet.
Cheryl Anne snapped her fingers over her shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, for God’s sake. I want to dance.”
Thud’s eyes were almost invisible under his lowered brow, but he lumbered around her to his designated spot. “Come on, then-dance, damn it,” he grunted. After a second of icy disdain, Cheryl Anne joined him and they disappeared into the mass of writhing bodies. I was not the only wallflower to let out my breath, Tupperwear-style.
At the end of the second set, the lead guitarist announced they were “gonna haf to break” for fifteen minutes so their “instruments could like cool off, you know.” I slipped out the door to assess whether I had brain damage, and promptly bumped into my Baker Street Irregulars.
“I saw Miss Parchester!” Caron said, her fingers digging into my arm. “She’s in the building.”
“When did you see her, and where is she?”
“We saw her go around a corner when we went to hide in the rest room,” Inez said.
“Hide in the rest room?” I said, momentarily distracted.
“The geek, Mother. He’s here-and he keeps looking at me,” Caron said. “Anyway, we tried to catch Miss Parchester, but we couldn’t keep up with her. My ankle, you how.”
“I know,” I said. “Tell Mr. Chippendale that I’ve gone to the lounge for an aspirin, and that I’ll be back after the break. Miss Parchester probably went to the basement to look for clues or some such thing. Perhaps I can persuade her to listen to me.”
I headed for the basement, aware that I was spending an inordinate amount of time in the dark bowels of this building. My flashlight was still in my purse (I do profit from experience), and I switched it on as I scuttled down the stairs. The corridor was empty. The lounge was locked. The journalism room was dark and still and held no hidden presence that I could discern from the doorway.
As I paused under the exit light to think, I noticed one of the classroom doors was ajar. A taped card had Miss Zuckerman’s name and a list of classes, which included such esoteric things as Steno II and A-V Machines: Advanced. Miss Parchester might have slipped in to pick up something for her friend, I decided as I eased through the door.
If she had, she was already gone. I shined the light on the far wall, which had inspirational messages taped in a tidy row. “Clean ribbons make clear copies.” “Type right on your typewriter.” The back wall exhorted the students to practice their swirls and curlicues. “Shorthand-your key to a good job.” A travel poster that touted the charms of Juarez contributed the one splash of color in an otherwise drab decor. Miss Zuckerman must have felt quite naughty when she included it, I thought with a sigh. “Nimble fingers come from practice.” My light continued. around the room. “Join the Future Secretaries of America.” “Speed and spelling equal salary.”
I decided to search the room in case Miss Parchester had inadvertently dropped some vital clue, such as a motel key. I began with the rows of shrouded typewriters and worked my way to the desk drawers. I expected to find rosters and lesson plans. I did not expect to find a crude little cigarette in an envelope.
During the sixties, I had encountered such things, sometimes in an intimate fashion. That had been more than fifteen years ago, however, and I was not sure I could trust my aged nose to ascertain if this was truly a marijuana cigarette. It seemed absurd that Tessa Zuckerman would have one stashed in her desk; she was hardly my idea of a dope dealer.
I could have called the police station and told Peter about my discovery. He could have sent Jorgeson over to collect the evidence and deliver it to the lab to be tested. Then he could have arranged for Miss Zuckerman to be transferred to a cell next to Miss Parchester’s, so that the two little old ladies could chat as they withered away in their prison garb. A murderer and a dope dealer, both with silv
er hair and porcelain skin.
I took a book of matches from my purse and lit the thing. If it turned out to be some thug’s innocent attempt to save a few cents on prefabricated cigarettes, then there would be no reason not to drop it in the trash can and go about my business. If it was illegally potent, I would have to tell Peter-at some point. I inhaled deeply and waited for the answer.
Oddly enough, I thought I could see Peter’s face. I was sitting on the floor, my head against the desk, when the light came on overhead and footsteps echoed like a Poutian revival. Frowning. I squinted up at the face hovering above me. No body, mind you. It was very, very peculiar. I warned myself to watch out.
“Claire?” it actually said. It sounded like Peter’s voice, which struck me as highly amusing, if not outright uproarious.
I clamped my hand over my giggle-my mouth-and said, “Where’s the rest of you?”
The rest of him came around the desk and squatted in front of me. “What’s wrong with you, Claire? Why are you sitting on the floor in a dark classroom?” His nose wrinkled (quite adorably, I thought), and he looked at the smoldering butt in my hand.
“Where did you get a joint, for Christ’s sake-and why are you smoking it now? Here?”
“Don’t have time later,” I told him smugly. “I’m in charge of five hundred-count ‘em-five hundred juvenile delinquents who want to dance all over each other. Want to show ‘em how to jitterbug, Supercop?”
“You are stoned,” he said in a stunned voice. “I presume there’s an explanation for this, and that you’re going to give it to me. Right?”
“I am not stoned. I am merely conducting an experiment, like the one I did with the pit peach. Peach pit. Remember when you saw me on the sidewalk with the hammer? It must have looked really funny.” I started to laugh as I recalled his expression, then discovered I was helpless to stop-but I didn’t mind one teeny-weeny bit. Finally I got hold of myself, or of something. It may have been Peter’s shoe.
“Give me the joint.” He held out his hand, and I obediently handed over the remains. He pulled me to my feet, which seemed to belong to someone else, and steadied me. “We are going to the lounge for a nice pot of coffee. I have a feeling you’re not quite ready to return to the dance.”
“I am too ready,” I sniffed. “A little wobbly, perhaps, but more than capable of chaperonage. I may even dance, if anyone asks me. Maybe by myself. Anyway, the lounge is locked. We can’t get in because we don’t have a key. Not even Supercop can walk through doors that are locked. Will you dance with me?”
He mutely showed me a key, then propelled me down the hall and into the lounge. I was placed unceremoniously on the mauve monster, and informed that I was not to move while he made coffee. Which was dandy with me, since I wasn’t sure I could move in any case. In any direction.
“If you want to arrest me, go ahead. I was chasing Miss Parchester,” I informed the doorway of the kitchenette, “and I lost her again. That woman is as fast as a damn minnow, and as slippery as a damn sardine. We ought to stake out the public aquarium, Peter.”
He came back into the room and handed me a cup of coffee. “I saw Caron in the gym, and she told me you were in hot pursuit of Miss Parchester.”
“For the zillionth time,” I agreed. “I thought you were on a stakeout, Sherlock. What are you doing at the school?”
“I came to check on you. You are, shall we say, at times unconventional in your investigative techniques.”
“Unconventional?” That rang a bell somewhere, but all I could do was blink at him. Bravely, I hoped.
“As in overzealous, impetuous, and illegal,” he said, holding the last of the joint in his fingertips.
I couldn’t tell if his smile was sincere or sarcastic, but I did like the color of his eyes. When I said as much, he pointed at the coffee cup and turned just a tad pink. “This isn’t my cup,” I said, studying the intricate swirls of roses and pastel leaves. “This could warrant a firing squad-or worse, you know. After you finish locking up poor Miss Parchester and poor Miss Zuckerman, will you come to my funeral?”
“Miss Parchester is still at large, and Miss Zuckerman is tucked safely in her hospital bed. As for the funeral, I’ll make a point of attending-it will be the one time I know exactly where you are and what you’re doing.”
I didn’t much like that, but I decided to let it go. “Mrs. Platchett takes this cup thing pretty seriously. She was more upset at me for borrowing her cup than she was about the deviled eggs.”
“Why was she upset about the deviled eggs?” he asked, not sounding especially concerned about my welfare.
“Well, she wasn’t upset about the deviled eggs, because Pitts hadn’t poked them. Did you know that broccoli doesn’t take fingerprints?”
“Actually, it does, but we can discuss the technical aspects later. Why did she think Pitts might poke the deviled eggs?”
“He poked everything.” I rubbed my forehead, which was beginning to ache. “I think I’d better have some more coffee.”
“I think you may recover,” he said with a smile. “Will you please tell me why I stumbled on to a stoned bookseller in the basement of the high school?”
I told him why. We agreed that I had erred in my decision to test the contents of the cigarette, and that I should have called him. I drank more coffee, my head propped on his shoulder, and told him about the problem of Jerry’s transcript, Paula’s reaction, and Thud Immerman’s reinstatement. None of it amazed him, although he did seem interested.
“Paula’s not as sweet as she acts,” I said, snuggling into his chest. “She might have murdered Weiss to protect her future, or she might have persuaded Jerry to do the dirty deed in order to protect her virtue.”
“He wasn’t in the lounge, and neither was she.”
“The murderer did have to enter the lounge between ten and ten-fifteen, when Evelyn came in to use the ladies room.” I glanced at the closed door of said establishment. “If I’d known about the hole, I might have murdered Pitts myself.”
“The hole was discovered the day after Weiss’s funeral, so it could have been a motive in the second murder. We just can’t find a decent motive for Weiss’s murder, except vengeance.”
“Meaning Miss Parchester?”
“I’m sorry, Claire. I don’t enjoy the idea of chasing some elderly lady around Farberville to question her about her recipe for peach compote, but she did have a reason to be angry at Weiss. I do need to ask her a few questions, if only to permit her to prove her innocence.”
“I know,” I said, sighing. The fuzzy pink slippers must have been wearing thin, considering the miles they’d done in the last six days. The hospital, the parade, the dance, probably the football game, and the school. The woman had been everywhere, but was nowhere to be found-while the judge rotated in his grave. “What are you going to do about the marijuana in Miss Zuckerman’s desk?”
“Ask her, although I would imagine she confiscated it from one of her students.”
“And failed to turn it in to the authorities? If she’s like her sister Furies, she’s probably a stickler for regulations. Maybe she found it the day of the potluck and did not have an opportunity to deal with it.”
He nodded. Before he could say anything. Caron limped into the lounge. “Mr. Chippendale is frantic, Mother. He sent me to search for you, because the band members took off their shirts and he thinks they may take off more. He says they are virtually Out of Control, although I don’t know what he expects you to do.”
“Call in the cavalry,” I said, smiling at Peter. “Surely you can strike a chord of fear in their atonal souls.”
We went to the gym. We didn’t, however, jitterbug until dawn. Actually, it was more like three in the morning.
TWELVE
I went the Book Depot the next morning and opened up for business, the ledgers having hinted at the desirability of earning a few dollars, if not an actual fistful or more. I sold books, straightened shelves, filed invoices, and griped
long-distance about delayed orders. It was all fairly normal until Caron and Inez limped through the door, gasping and panting. As always, normalcy fled in the face of post-pubescent theatrics. I could not.
“Did you hear about Cheryl Anne and Thud?” Caron demanded.
“No, I heard about a fire at a university press and something about an order shipped to Alaska by mistake, but nary a word about the queen and the jock.”
“They Broke Up.” Caron folded her arms and stared at me, willing me to blanche, grab the edge of the counter, and beg for further details. “They’ve been going steady for Two Whole Years,” she added when preliminary fireworks failed to explode.
“A blessing for the future of the human race,” I said. “I cringe at the thought of the offspring those two might have conceived.”
Inez gulped. “It was terrible, Mrs. Malloy. They had a big scene in the parking lot after the dance, and Cheryl Anne told Thud to drop dead, preferably in the middle of the highway.”
“In front of a truck,” Caron added.
“He was furious.” Inez.
“He called her dreadful names.” Caron.
“Slut.” Inez, with a shiver.
“Cheap little whore.” Caron, without.
“She told him he was a miserable football player, that he ought to play against twelve-year-old girls.” Inez.
“He said he’d played with little girls too long.” Caron.
“He said he was ready for a real woman.” Inez.
The Abbott and Costello routine was giving me a pain in the neck, physically as well as metaphorically. I held up my hand and said, “Wait a minute, please. I really am not interested in an instant replay of their witticisms, no matter how colorful they may have been. May I assume Cheryl Anne was upset because Thud failed to win the game single-handedly and ensure a Homecoming celebration fraught with significance and glistening memories?”
