Poisoned Pins (8 page)

“I never lurk,” I said. “I am merely taking an interest in a crime committed not more than twenty feet from my back door. For all I know, the murderer is lurking in my kitchen.”

“No one said anything about murder,” he growled.

“You and the gang didn't come out to investigate the theft of a dumpster, did you?” I shaded my eyes and permitted myself a small grimace. “My eyes have been subject to enough abuse tonight. Would you please ask your pyrotechnical expert to give me a break?”

Peter gestured at the officer, then came over to me and gave me a look meant to intimidate me into flight into the nearest haven. “Civilians are not allowed at the scene of a crime,” he said in his steeliest cop voice. “We've got the weapon, and in any case, it's unlikely you could be run down in your kitchen by a 1973 Buick. Please, this one time, let me do my job without your assistance. When I can get away, I'll come by and tell you what happened.”

“Was it one of the girls from the Kappa Theta Eta house?”

He bit down on his lip in a manner I found incredibly virile, but I left it unspoken. He said, “We don't have a positive ID yet. If she was carrying a purse, the impact knocked it into the brush or it was taken from the scene.” He glowered at me. “You don't know them, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I had dinner at the house in the middle of the week, and am capable of identifying any one of them. However, I sense that I'm interrupting, so I'll run along home and have a nice cup of tea while you and the boys get back to business.” I took a couple of steps backward to prove I wasn't bluffing. “Call me when you can.”

“We're not going to find her purse tonight, Lieutenant,” a uniformed officer called. “The undergrowth's a damn jungle. Maybe it'll turn up tomorrow when we can see what we're doing.”

Peter was now biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, and I could see it took an effort on his part to relent and mutter, “See if you recognize her.”

I allowed myself to be escorted between two police cars, and then forced myself to look down at the body sprawled on the eroded asphalt surface. Once I was sure, I spun away and bent over the hood of one of the cars, struggling not to lose the beer I'd imbibed. I squeezed my eyes closed, but the image of the lifeless face and ribbons of blood seemed all the more intense, more vivid than the reality.

Peter rested his hand on my back. “Is she one of the girls from this sorority house?”

I gulped back the bitterness that rose in my throat, and stood up. “Her name was Jean Hall. She was . . .” I harshly rubbed my temples as if my fingers could erase the image. “She was planning to attend law school at Yale in the fall. She was enrolled in one course this summer, and also worked for the dean of the law school here.” I moved out of the light and kept my eyes locked on Peter's face. “What happened to her? She looks as though she'd been run down by a fleet of buses.”

He pointed at a wide white car that was partially buried in a tangle of brush. “The lab boys are on their way, but we're fairly certain that's the vehicle, and we're running the plates right now. A brown substance on the front bumper appears to be blood, and a headlight is broken.”

“But she was . . .” I couldn't find the word, much less say it aloud in the presence of the badly violated body.

Peter put his hands on my shoulders and drew me across the alley, where he could wrap his arms around me without risking grins from his cohorts. “The initial impact most likely killed her instantly, or at least knocked her unconscious. Go on upstairs, Claire. As soon as I'm done, I'll join you for a drink. I have to deal with this, but I don't like it any better than you, especially when it's a kid.”

“What about the girls in the house, and the housemother? Why aren't they out here? How could they not see the lights? I don't understand why—”

He dug his fingers into my back until I stopped sputtering at his shoulder. “There's no one home at the moment. It's Friday night, so they may all be out on dates or working late at the library or whatever sorority girls do on weekends. We'll stay here until someone returns and we can get information about the victim. Now that we have a name, I'll send an officer to see if he can roust the registrar. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

I was still battling nausea, and the idea of collapsing on my sofa with a cup of tea was enough to make me giddy. I hadn't liked Jean Hall. Then again, I thought with an explosion of frigid anger, my antipathetic opinion hadn't given someone tacit permission to kill her. She hadn't deserved to be run down so brutally, so dispassionately.

It was not yet time for tea. “Listen, Peter,” I said, “all four of the girls were staying in a wing off the lounge. I don't know which room was Jean's, but I can tell with a quick look. Maybe you can find an address book or some correspondence that will indicate where
her parents live. They should be notified as soon as possible.”

“I suppose you're right,” he said gloomily. “I'll send for a campus cop to unlock the house for us. They've already made it clear that the alley is city property and in our jurisdiction, but they'll assist us.”

“If no one's in the house and it's locked, she must have taken her key with her. Did someone check her pockets?”

“Earlier, for identification. Her pockets are empty, and as you heard while so charmingly eavesdropping, her purse hasn't turned up yet. Campus security can be here in a minute or two.” He told me to wait where I was, then reentered the brightly lit arena of activity to confer with the medical examiner, the squad from the crime lab, and the medics.

A disgruntled campus policeman arrived with a key, and shortly thereafter, Peter and I entered the house. Jorgeson followed with a flashlight, which proved necessary when we found ourselves in a dark kitchen. Aluminum pans and bowls glinted dully from hooks along the ceiling, and stacks of plastic glasses reflected slivers of orange and blue. A vast refrigerator droned unsteadily.

I found a light switch, and led them through the dining room to the lounge, and after a moment's consideration, down a corridor replete with a blank bulletin board and tiers of mail cubicles, all empty. When Rebecca had given me the tour, she'd pointed out the hallway lined with four bedroom doors on one side, and on the opposing side a pink-tiled bathroom and a closet used by the custodial staff.

The first door was locked. I stepped back, and Jorgeson fiddled with a pick until we heard a ping. He opened the door and switched on the light. I knew it wasn't a matter of breaking and entering, not with a pair of cops accompanying me, but I felt as guilty as a dieter with a doughnut as I went inside the room.

It wasn't much larger than my office, and contained a narrow bed, a built-in closet, a dresser, and a desk
cluttered with all the paraphernalia necessary to produce the flawless face of a Kappa Theta Eta. Clothes were piled on the bed, draped over a chair, and discarded on the floor. Mixed among jeans and shorts were pink cashmere sweaters and pink silk blouses, lacy pink panties, a single fuzzy pink bedroom slipper, pink sweatpants, and a pink-and-white-striped umbrella.

I wasn't surprised to see a stuffed cat on the bed, dozens of pink paper cats taped to the walls and around the mirror, and on the desk, a necklace with a silver cat charm. Beside it was a framed photograph of a group of girls positioned around a cat, all of them smiling brightly except for their hostage, who looked panicky.

“What's with this cat thing?” Peter asked from the doorway, unwilling or possibly unable to encroach on this feline sanctuary.

“You really don't want to know,” I said. “This must be Rebecca's room. These are scripts, and the textbooks have to do with theater history.”

We went to the next room, which had a distressingly similar decor and a selection of psychology textbooks. On the bed was a My Beautiful Self manual and strips of paper that reminded me of paint sample cards. “Pippa's room,” I said as we retreated.

While Jorgeson plied his magic on the third door, I related what little I knew about Rebecca and Pippa. We entered the room. The cat motif was nearly nonexistent, with only a single pink paper cat taped to the wall and nary a kitty on the pillow. The bed was made, the desk surface pristine, the floor bare, the lone photograph that of a middle-aged couple with squinty eyes and unsmiling mouths. The room had the austerity of a convent cell, and perhaps slightly less warmth.

“This is Debbie Anne's room,” I said with a sigh. I picked up an envelope and noted the return address. The town was unfamiliar, but the state is riddled with towns that are no more than a few forlorn houses
clumped around a post office. “She's the one who's not Kappa material, from all accounts.”

In the last room, the cats were back in full force on the bed, the mirror frame, the walls, and the back of the door, and even on the personal computer on the desk. There were dozens of photographs of Jean, each with a different boy wrapped around her and grinning drunkenly at the camera. Slogans on their T-shirts proclaimed the occasions to be such dignified affairs as Purple Cow Madness Night and Sin City. Jean had managed to keep at least some of her clothes in the closet, and her books were aligned on the shelf above the desk. She had a portable television on a plastic crate, presumably out of deference to her exalted position as house president, and an extensive collection of stuffed cats piled on the bed.

Peter and Jorgeson were beyond response by that time. They both looked so intensely uncomfortable that I felt sorry for them. Jorgeson glanced down the hallway as if he were anticipating an attack by a blustery pink coed or a rabid cat. I had no problem empathizing with their disquietude, having experienced it myself.

“This is Jean's room,” I said patiently. “Do you want to look for her home address, or shall I do it for you?”

My offer was ignored. While I sat on the bed and watched Peter search through the drawers and Jorgeson paw through the closet, I mentally replayed my conversations with Jean. She would have made a fine lawyer, I thought as I remembered how deftly she'd maligned Debbie Anne with only a few facetiously concerned observations and a delicate sneer or two.

“Here's an address book, Lieutenant.” Jorgeson held up a small leather book and flipped through the pages. “She didn't write down her parents' address or telephone number, but there's a number for Aunt Mellie in Little Rock. You want me to find a telephone and try it?”

Peter nodded distractedly, his eyes darting from cat to cat and his forehead creased as if it had been raked
by sharp claws. “I don't get this,” he said under his breath. “I'd go crazy after ten minutes in this place. It's so . . .”

“Pink?” I suggested, wondering if he was so unsettled that he inadvertently might pass along a few official tidbits. We amateur sleuths must be ever vigilant to take advantage of any momentary weakness. “I didn't know Jean well, but she was the one I'd have said was not a pink person. She had a brittleness about her, and certainly not an easygoing, pastel personality. Either I was mistaken in my judgment, or she's gone to extremes to present herself in a particular light.” I paused delicately, then continued in a vague, musing voice, “It wasn't a simple hit-and-run, was it? Whoever was driving made sure she was dead. I suppose we'll find out who it was when you find out whose car it is.”

“Yeah,” Peter said as he studied the room as though it were a museum reproduction from an extraterrestrial culture. “This sort of thing usually involves a drunk driver who suspects he hit something, backs up for a better look, drives into the nearest tree, and flees on foot. He'll turn himself in at the station in the morning, deeply repentant but nevertheless accompanied by his father's attorney, and eventually be let off with a fat fine, probation, and enough community service to cause minor inconvenience. Even with a suspended license, he'll be driving that same day and drinking that night.”

“Who reported the accident?”

“We got an anonymous call, maybe from the driver himself, who might not have been sure the girl was dead.”

I looked at Jean's face in one of the photographs, but now saw it dappled with blood, the eyes glassy, the mouth crooked. “How could he not know he'd killed her?”

“It was dark, and he was drunk and frightened. It happens all too often on back roads and even on the better-lit highways. A guy has car trouble and starts
walking along the shoulder to find help, or a drunk steps out in front of a speeding car.”

Jorgeson came into the room. “Aunt Mellie isn't home, but we've got something on the car. It's registered to James Wray of Bethel Hills, which is a little town in the bottom corner of the state.”

“As in Debbie Anne Wray,” I said. “The girl who occupies the room noticeably lacking Kappa spirit. She's the one who was knocked down by a prowler several nights ago, or claimed she was.”

This was of interest, naturally, and I related the recent events, glossing over my reluctance to be drawn into a quagmire of cuteness. “I can't remember the woman's name,” I concluded, “but she's the wife of the law school dean. She's also some kind of alumna adviser, so I suppose she might have the names and addresses of the girls' families.”

Peter sent Jorgeson to work on it, then gestured for me to follow him out of Jean's room. “What can you tell me about the Wray girl? Do you have any theories why she'd want to hurt the victim—or where she might be at this moment?”

“Debbie Anne told me that Jean gave her a bad time, but I failed to spot any flicker of diabolical desire to seek revenge in the alley because of it. She's a limp, impassive girl, more likely to sit in a corner and whimper than to do something violent.” I shuddered as once again Jean's face forced its way into my mind, and I halted and leaned against the wall to steady myself. “As for her whereabouts, I doubt she's out on a date. You might try the library if it hasn't closed.”