Poisoned Pins (2 page)

“Mother!” she shrieked. “I have this absolutely incredible way to earn thousands and thousands of dollars! That way I can buy a car at the end of the summer! Aren't you excited?”

Caron is fifteen, an age that precludes pleasantries. Although we are similarly equipped with red hair, green eyes, and freckles, she has such an aura of intensity that I feel obliged to offer a disclaimer when I introduce her to the unwary. She's capable of the brightest explosion or the darkest implosion, neither remotely predictable and both equally alarming. Before
she was deluged by demon hormones, she'd not been an unreasonable person with whom to converse. I fully intend to resume such mother-daughter intimacy when it's no longer a life-threatening proposition.

Following more sedately was her best friend, Inez Thornton, also fifteen but without Caron's melodramatic flair. Inez is drab and soft-spoken, a perfect counterfoil to my burgeoning Broadway star. Her hair is brown in an oddly colorless way, her face rounded with the vestiges of childhood. The thick lenses of her glasses give her an expression of mild alarm, but if I were in Caron's wake, I'd look that way, too.

“Thousands of dollars?” I said cautiously.

“Thousands and thousands of dollars!” Aglow with greed, Caron began to dance disjointedly in front of the counter, twirling on one foot and then the other, snatching invisible bills from an invisible money tree. “I think I'll get one of those foxy little red convertibles. Rhonda's getting some really stupid car that her brother used to drive. She'll Absolutely Puke when I pull up in front of her house. Can't you see her face when she realizes Louis Wilderberry is in my passenger seat?” She wafted away between the racks, lost in this consummate vision of revenge. “Oh, Rhonda,” she continued in a syrupy simper, “Louis and I are going to the drive-in movie. We'd invite you, but it's too cozy for three. Bye-bye, Miss Cellulite Thighs!”

“Caron's kind of mad at Rhonda,” Inez contributed with a sigh. “We called to see if she wanted to go to the mall, but she said she had to stay home and baby-sit for her nerdy little brother. We went by anyway, and Louis's car is parked in her driveway.”

“Oh,” I said wisely. “How does Caron intend to chance upon enough money to exact this retribution?”

Caron capered back into view. “I'm going to be a consultant for My Beautiful Self, Inc. It's this unbelievably brilliant opportunity for me to make as much money as I want this summer.” Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of sheer agony. “But wait! I can't have a red convertible!”

An observer who might assume I understood any of this would be severely overestimating my maternal acumen, which, as usual, hovered near zero. I wasn't about to ask any questions or demand any explanations, however, and merely watched as she slumped against the self-help books and rubbed her face.

“I can't have black, either,” she said in a dull voice. “I'm Friendly, so I suppose I'll have to get a bronze or forest-green convertible. I just can't risk red.”

“I'm Elegant,” Inez said to me. “I could have a raspberry-colored car, but my parents probably won't even let me drive until I'm twenty-one because of the insurance rates.”

I waited for a moment, but both of them seemed lost in despondency. Despite the innumerable occasions when I should have kept out of it and suffered accordingly, I said, “Friendly and Elegant? I suppose that's better than being toady and dowdy.”

“Oh, Mother,” Caron said, lading the words with contempt as only a seasoned teenager can do, “nobody's toady or dowdy. There's only four categories: Sophisticated, Elegant, Lively, and Friendly, as in S-E-L-F. That's to help you remember them when you're doing a My Beautiful Self analysis.”

“And this leads to thousands—and thousands—of dollars?”

“My sixteenth birthday is the week before school starts, so you'd better hope it does. I have to have a car, you know, and not some ugly old pickup truck with dents all over it and a gun rack and horrible splotches of mildew.”

“Mildew?” Inez said, then slithered behind a rack as Caron glared at her.

“Who said anything about a pickup truck?” I asked.

“Were you planning to buy me a new Camaro?”

I closed the ledger and locked the cash register. “Frankly, my dear, I wasn't planning to buy you anything more complex than new loafers. We cannot afford a second car, especially in a recession. We'll be lucky to survive the summer, and I'm, going to have to
figure out a way to increase inventory for the fall semester without selling you into white slavery.”

Caron's lower lip shot out. “I am not going to be the only person at the entire high school without a car. Everybody'11 have a car this year, except maybe the nonentities who take welding and home nursing and disgusting things like that. Maybe I should forget about Honors Algebra and sign up for Teen Living? That's the course where you carry around an egg all year, waiting for it to take its first step and call you Mama.”

“Allison Wade fried hers in the middle of the semester,” Inez said, “and the teacher flunked her.”

“How about omelets for dinner?” I suggested, then locked the store and herded them up Thurber Street toward our duplex across from the lawn of Farber College. Sally Fromberger's cafe was closed for the summer, I noted unhappily, as were the renovated theater and pricey sportswear store. Their proprietors had acknowledged the inevitable, and if they were starving, they were doing it without the daily humiliation of silent cash registers.

“Don't you want to know more about how I'm going to get rich?” Caron asked, the lip having retreated for the moment. I nodded. “Well, one of the girls from the sorority house next door came by while I was putting out your garbage and—”

“My garbage?”

“It's certainly not mine. Anyway, she asked if I was interested in making a whole lot of money this summer. Then she told me all about how I could become a My Beautiful Self consultant, and how by the end of the summer I'd probably need a stockbroker and a bank account in Switzerland and—”

“A My Beautiful Self consultant?” I interrupted before we moved into the realm of treasury bonds and retiring the national debt.

We were in front of the sorority house, an imposing white brick structure reminiscent of a plantation with its pillars and green shutters. It would have been imposing, that is, had the paint not been peeling, screens
missing from some of the windows, a shutter hanging crookedly, the sidewalk cracked, the shrubbery brittle, the lawn yellowish-brown and crisscrossed with worn paths. Although I'd walked past it numerous times a day for years, I'd never so much as paused to study it. It took me a moment to interpret the Greek letters on the sign: Kappa Theta Eta.

I heard rock music coming from an open window on the first floor. “I thought all the fraternity and sorority houses closed for the summer.”

“Not this one,” Caron said impatiently. “Anyway, Pippa's going to train me, and when I'm a certified consultant, I can charge people for sessions and make as much money as I want. I can even recruit new consultants and train them myself. Then when their clients order cosmetics and stuff, I get ten percent.”

I tried to keep my voice light. “And this sorority girl spotted you clutching a garbage bag and realized you were the ideal candidate?”

“She said she's always looking for potential trainees, and she's noticed me walking past the house and thought how perfect I'd be. There are a few consultants in the dorms and other sorority houses, but there's no one working the high school market. It ought to be a gold mine.”

“And she gets ten percent of the gold you dig up at the high school?” I asked. “Is this legitimate?”

Inez nodded. “It's this big company with regional supervisors and catalogs and brochures and everything. My mother had some of her friends over one night—”

“Of course it's legitimate!” snapped Caron. “The founder is this Hungarian aristocrat who wanted to share her beauty secrets with the world. The training's very involved and you end up with a certificate and a card to carry in your purse. You have to sort of make an investment in the beginning, but you earn it back right away, and after that, everything's clear profit.”

The last sentence had been said in a fast mumble, but I caught it nevertheless. “How much of an investment?”

“Not that much,” she said in such a defensive tone that I knew I was going to hear a real whopper. “You have to order the official My Beautiful Self kit, but it's no big deal and it's totally necessary for when you do the sessions. I'll be able to pay you back at the end of the—”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Pay me back?”

The long-suffering martyr rolled her eyes in a heavenly direction. “We're talking sixty dollars or so, not a zillion.”

“Don't forget the shipping and handling charges,” Inez added. “That adds another twelve dollars and eighty cents, for a total of seventy-two dollars and eighty cents.”

Caron did not sound pleased with this display of arithmetic astuteness. “So there's shipping and handling. The point is, Mother, that I'll pay you back within a few days when I sign up all my friends. I can charge whatever I want, but Pippa says I should get a minimum of ten dollars for the basic analysis, and as much as twenty for an accessory awareness session. I get twenty-five percent of all the orders I generate, and ten percent of the orders of my trainees for the first six months.”

Before I could share my feelings about what might well be immoral, a silver Mercedes parked at the curb. A battered green truck pulled up behind it, and both drivers emerged from their vehicles. One was a slender middle-aged woman in a beige silk suit and matching heels, who moved with the brisk self-assurance of a Junior League president. The other was a shambling man with a stubbly face, thick wet lips, red-rimmed eyes, hair that might have been styled with pruning shears, and paint-spotted overalls. They started toward the sorority house.

I tried to nudge Caron and Inez into motion. “We will continue this discussion when we get upstairs,” I said in a cold, curt voice. I was actually rather proud of myself, in that my stomach was twisted into a cruel knot and I was having difficulty breathing. Clouds had
not crossed the sun, but everything seemed to glow in an eerie way.

“Did you see who that was?” gasped Caron. Apparently Inez was too flabbergasted to do anything more than goggle at the figures on the porch of the sorority house.

“It's none of our business,” I said.

Inez finally found what there was of her voice. “It's Arnie. You remember him, don't you, Mrs. Malloy?”

“Yes, I do.” I grabbed their arms and propelled them through the door and up the stairs to our apartment. Once we were safely inside, the door locked and the chain in place, I abandoned them and headed for the kitchen to make myself a stiff drink. Minutes later, I made myself another.

“Arnie?” Peter choked on the name, spraying the coffee table with a mouthful of beer. “Not Arnie, please. Seeing him was just some form of recurrent hallucination brought on by—”

“Lack of sales?” I leaned my head on his shoulder and stared at the living-room ceiling. “The girls recognized him, too. He's driving a disreputable green truck instead of that hideous Cadillac he used to have, but he's the same Arnie right down to his neon nose and slobbery lips. No better, no worse—just good ol' Arnold Riggles. Can't you keep him in jail for more than ten minutes?”

“He was in the county jail, and your estimate of ten minutes is apt to be accurate. The facility's crowded, and someone charged with a misdemeanor hardly qualifies for a lengthy period of free room and board. All he did was steal a couple of dogs and a cat, Claire.”

“And the other times? Drunken driving, drunken hiking, car theft, fleeing the scene, being a nuisance, accusing me of being—”

“All misdemeanors, I'm afraid,” Peter murmured, trying to sound soothing despite the edge of amusement in his voice. “We almost nailed him with a felony
a couple of months ago, but the prosecutor decided to ignore the small fry and go after the big fish.”

I was not in the mood for piscatory puzzles. “What are you talking about, Peter? Rigging a bass tournament?”

“Nothing that interesting. We learned that the man who had the pawnshop out in the strip mall east of town was a fence, and we finally got around to busting him. Arnie was one of the regular customers.”

“Why wasn't he hanged?”

“We couldn't prove that he was bringing in stolen property. He claimed a certain necklace had belonged to his mother, and it wasn't on any of our lists. He also brought in a portable television set that might have been taken in an apartment burglary, but the student hadn't recorded a serial number and Arnie swore he'd won it in a poker game.”

“And you were gullible enough to believe him?” I rolled my eyes as Caron had done that same afternoon. “Surely you could have found evidence that would be adequate to keep him off our streets for a few years—if you'd tried, that is.”

He patted me on the shoulder as if I were a faithful dog curled in his lap. “Let's not talk about Arnie anymore, okay? I had a call from a guy I trained with. He owns a cabin about fifty miles from here, and he offered to let me use it anytime this summer. It's fairly rustic, but it's got a fireplace, a great view of the lake, and a king-size brass bed. We can sit on the deck all day and watch the birds and the bees, and then at night . . .”

He was in the midst of some intriguing remarks concerning other aspects of nature when footsteps came pounding up the stairs. Caron flew into the room, took a deep breath, and said, “It really is that Awful Arnie Person!”

I'd moved to the respectable end of the sofa. I wiggled my eyebrows at Peter, then looked at my daughter's flushed cheeks and air of triumph. “What did you learn?”