Poisoned Pins (5 page)

“How exciting,” I said with a yawn. “What crimes are you preventing?”

“The one we're not preventing is shoplifting. Now that the kids are out of school, they seem dedicated to stealing the contents of the mall, one piece of merchandise at a time. Some of them are happy with a cassette or a pair of sunglasses, but we're dealing with some slick professionals, too.”

The Kappa Kitten leered at me. “Surely you can get away for one night,” I said, lapsing into a despicable female wheedle. “It doesn't get dark until after nine, so we don't have to leave until you're off duty. We'll be there in time to sit on the deck and watch the sunset, then broil steaks while the stars come out.”

“Last night you were more concerned with mosquitoes than starlight. I distinctly remember some caustic remarks about the menace of Mother Nature and your unwillingness to risk what was apt to be a saggy bed and a dearth of hot water.”

I'd been pretty damn eloquent, too. “I've changed my mind, Peter. I think we really need to get away, if only for one night, to discuss our relationship.”

“Do you?” he said in an infuriatingly mild voice. “I
have to meet with mall security at nine, but I can come by after that to . . . discuss our relationship.”

The Kappa Kitten licked its lips. “That's too late. We need to leave for the cabin no later than six o'clock. We can't discuss anything when Caron might barge in with some new scheme to make her first million. I don't understand why you can't tell Jorgeson or somebody to meet with the mall cops.”

“Because I can't. Listen, if you're so frantic to go to the cabin, let me call my buddy and see if we can use it this weekend. We can have a couple of lazy, peaceful days to discuss whatever it is that you find so urgent, and Caron won't have the slightest idea how to find us.”

“Then you refuse to go today?” I asked coolly.

“What's wrong with this weekend?”

“Nothing at all. I suggest you warn Jorgeson to stock up on bug spray. I'm sure he'll be great company for you in the brass bed!” I slammed down the receiver, and when it rang seconds later, I grabbed the feather duster and stalked around the counter to attack the classics with serious dedication.

“Welcome to Kappa Theta Eta, Mrs. Malloy,” said the girl who must have been hovering just inside the doorway of the house. I'd seen her the night before, but only briefly before she and the one I now knew as Pippa had retreated. She was a beautiful girl, with waist-length black hair, deep blue eyes, dramatically sculpted cheekbones, and a dusky complexion that hinted of exotic forebears. “I'm Rebecca Faulkner,” she continued in the mellifluous voice of a well-trained singer. “It's so kind of you to accept our invitation, and I'd love to show you the house.”

“Is Caron here?” I said as I forced myself to step over the threshold of a residence that produced pink paper cats with the efficiency of a factory line.

“She's in Pippa's room.” Rebecca took off like a tour guide, and I followed like a tourist plagued with blisters. I admired the foyer and the living room, which were the only rooms in which men were permitted, and then the lounge, the dining room (apparently busboys were a subspecies), the door to the kitchen, and a short hallway lined with closed doors. All of it was decorated in pink, since, as Rebecca told me, their official colors were pink and white. I was not surprised. I subsequently learned that their official flower was a pink rose, their official mascot the beloved Katie the Kappa Kitten, and their official chapter name Delta Delta. Fearing I was on the verge of learning the brand of their official toothpaste, I declined an invitation to explore the two upper floors and asked to speak to Caron.

“But we haven't been to Winkie's suite,” Rebecca
said, visibly dismayed by my presumptuous intrusion into the itinerary. “All guests have to be formally introduced to the housemother. It's a rule from National. I escort you to her suite and introduce you, then you and she come to the dining room together.” She looked over her shoulder nervously, as if a spy from National might be lurking in a corner, grimly recording this unseemly deviation from procedure. “Then you'll have a chance to meet Katie, Mrs. Malloy. Don't you want to meet Katie in person?”

I did not point out the oxymoronic reality that one does not meet an animal in person, nor did I mention my animosity toward the species. It was clear to me by now that there was no hope of winning a battle, or even a minor skirmish, with an organization that dictated the color of the toilet seats.

“By all means, then,” I said, “let's visit Katie.”

Rebecca led me across the foyer and knocked on a door. “Mrs. Malloy is here, Winkie,” she called, almost reverently.

Winkie opened the door and invited us in. “I'm so pleased you accepted our invitation, Mrs. Malloy. Kappas should be on friendly terms with their neighbors, and the girls should have invited you and your daughter to visit us years ago.”

Her tiny living room was decorated in pink (surprise, surprise), and there was a dusty arrangement of pink silk roses on a coffee table. On the sofa was a long-haired cat; its white fur was the only relief thus far from the relentless pinkness. It gazed at me without interest, and I reciprocated in like.

“May I offer you a glass of wine?” Winkie said in a conspiratorial voice. “Alcohol is forbidden in the house, but since there are so few girls this summer, I decided it might be all right to have a little nip now and then.”

I realized that Rebecca had faded away. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Winklebury.”

“You must call me Winkie. Sit there right by Katie and I'll get the glasses and the decanter.” She moved
out of view, but continued talking. “I do hope you were able to get to sleep last night after that minor bother. Debbie Anne never stops to think what effect her actions may have on others. We had a long talk this afternoon, and I feel confident that she'll behave more appropriately in the future.”

“Did the police officers catch the prowler?” I asked as I sat down at the opposite end of the sofa from Katie, bleakly suspecting my dark slacks would be covered with cat hair forever after. That particular kind of magnetism seems to be the tribulation borne by non–cat fanciers.

Winkie returned with two glasses and a chipped decanter. “Is burgundy all right? I have a little chablis, but it's old and might not be any good.” She served the wine and settled into a rocking chair, her shoes barely touching the worn pink carpet, her dress smoothed over her knees, her face crimped with pleasure in anticipation of a cozy chat. She reminded me of a child playing in her great-grandmother's parlor. “Frankly, Claire—if I may call you that?—I doubt there was a prowler. The girl has a vivid imagination, to put it kindly, and on other occasions has disrupted the house and caused scenes.”

“That's what Jean said last night. It's none of my business, but why was Debbie Anne invited to join the sorority if she's so disliked?”

“It's unfortunate that we're obliged to take girls who aren't Kappa material, but it's based on economics. We cannot afford to have vacant beds, much less vacant rooms. The budget's so tight that we have to fill the pledge class as early in the fall as possible; the alumnae and members spend most of their summer having parties and luncheons for potential pledges. All the girls are required to live in the house for a minimum of six consecutive semesters, and we encourage them to stay here all four years.”

“I've noticed most of the other houses are closed for the summer,” I said.

“We usually close, too, but our house corps president,
Eleanor Vanderson, raised enough money for us to do some much-needed redecorating in preparation for rush and for a visit from the financial adviser from National. She's coming in August to audit the books, and we dearly hope she can offer some suggestions to improve our situation. When I agreed to be here to supervise the workmen, the girls asked if they could stay. Two of them are taking graduate classes, and the other will be a senior. Debbie Anne's technically a freshman and I was opposed to having her.” A dark look crossed her face, then vanished as she gave a rueful laugh. “But Eleanor determined that we needed four monthly residence fees to cover the utilities, and Debbie Anne was the only other girl in summer school.”

“Well, good,” I said lamely, not at all interested in the subject or much of anything else, with the exception of surviving the ordeal and achieving the sanctuary of my own sofa. Winkie was swirling the wine in her glass, apparently content to sit in silence for what might be a very long time. To cover the sound of my rumbling stomach, I asked, “How long have you been the housemother?”

“Three years. After the divorce, I worked in an exclusive dress shop for almost ten years, but then my back began to trouble me and I was forced to give up my job. This position rescued me from a very bleak situation. A year from now I'll be eligible for social security and a nice pension from a fund established by the National Board. I'll miss the excitement, but it will be a relief to have my own apartment where I can do as I please. Here, I must admit, I'm basically on duty twenty-four hours a day, supervising the kitchen and custodial staffs, handling deliveries, counseling the girls, attending training and social functions for the campus housemothers, and serving as hostess for the house. There are so many restrictions that I sometimes feel as if I have more rules and regulations than the girls.”

“Indeed.” I artlessly looked at my watch and then at the cat, which, like any sensible creature, had gone to
sleep during Winkie's whiny discourse on her job description.

She caught the hint and stood up. “Shall we go to the dining room, Claire?”

I rose with alacrity. “That's a wonderful idea. I haven't seen my daughter all afternoon, and while Rebecca was showing me around, she mentioned that Caron was already here and in Pippa's room.”

“All the girls are staying in the wing off the lounge. It saves on utilities. During the school year, those rooms are used by the house officers, but with just the four . . .” She stopped to stroke Katie's head, then led me out to the foyer and paused in front of two portraits of women clutching white cats. The cats had uniformly bulgy eyes, as did one of the women.

“These are the previous housemothers,” she told me. “The chapter was organized eleven years ago by a group of dedicated alumnae. Muffy was the first housemother, and she stayed nearly seven years. She's out on parole now and dropped by to visit just last month. Pattycake was here only a year before she decided to find other employment. She wasn't a Kappa, and the girls did not find her sympathetic. Some of the seniors still remember how detached she was when her first Katie was run down by a garbage truck out back. One of them told me, in the strictest confidence, of course, that Pattycake was never pleased when they dropped by to say good night to Katie or leave little gifts of catnip and squeaky toys.”

“Imagine that,” I said, trying not to do so myself as we went through French doors to the dining room.

Pippa, Rebecca, and Jean leaped to their feet as if we'd brandished automatic weapons, their ubiquitous sorority pins sparkling madly on uniformly pink expanses. Caron glanced curiously at them but kept her seat as Winkie formally introduced them to me, escorted me to a chair, and told them to sit back down. The majesty of the moment ended with the shatter of crockery from behind the kitchen door, followed by the dispirited wail of someone who was not Kappa material.
Eyes rolled like loose marbles, but no one was motivated to go to the kitchen and investigate the disaster.

“I'm so excited that Caron's my new trainee,” Pippa chirped, dimpling at me. “She's going to make a swell My Beautiful Self consultant, don't you think? She's got such motivation, and you're going to be astounded at how well she does once she starts working the high school market, where there truly is a need. The school colors are purple and gold, so you can imagine what a challenge it'll be. But I just know she's going to stick with it and become one of my top earners.”

“And you do get a cut, don't you?” I said.

Caron gave me a look meant to wither me into silence. “I've already explained that, Mother. I'll get a cut from my trainees, too. It's like a pyramid, but there's all this room at the top.”

Unwithered, I said, “Pyramids rise to sharp points.”

“I'm using the color analysis theory as a basis for my senior thesis,” Pippa continued blithely. “I'm a psych major, and I intend to explore the psychological factors that result from someone's acceptance of her appropriate palette, particularly if that person”—she eyed me critically—”has always worn the wrong shades. It's funny, but the client seems to go through predictable stages: denial, anger, mourning for the lost colors, and then acceptance and celebration of the new beautiful self. I plan to use this in therapy when I go into private practice.”

Jean laughed. “Mourning for the lost colors?”

“Woe is me,” Rebecca inserted with the same mockery, “no more mauve. However can I go on living?”

Jean and Rebecca grinned at each other. Pippa flushed while she considered her rebuttal, no doubt based on guidelines from National that delineated the amount of violence acceptable in the dining room. Winkie continued to glance at the kitchen door and sigh, and Caron did her best to slither down in her seat and disappear.

I finally tired of the uncomfortable silence and said, “What are you majoring in, Jean?”

“Political history. I've been accepted to law school at Yale beginning this fall. I'm taking a course this summer in economics, and working for the dean at the law school here.”

“Mrs. Vanderson's husband,” added Winkie, having mistaken me for someone who cared. “She helped Jean attain the position.”

Jean gave Rebecca an enigmatic look, then turned to me and said, “In exchange for office duties, I'm allowed to sit in on lectures. Dean Vanderson okayed it with the professors.”