Poisoned Pins (25 page)

“This is the door to the chapter room,” muttered Rebecca. She continued down a hallway, opened an unlocked door, and explained without enthusiasm, “This is where we store props for the rush skits.” A second door opened into the furnace room, a third into a cavernous room containing a single trunk and a few pieces of lumber. Costumes hung from metal racks in yet another, and the final room was devoid of anything except mouse droppings and a fuse box.

We returned to the door of the chapter room. Feeling as if I were about to be ushered into the innermost sanctum of a shrine, I was almost reluctant to follow Rebecca into the room. I don't know what I expected, but the haphazard rows of metal chairs, a couple of tables, and a droopy banner riddled with Greek letters and stylized pink roses failed to impress me.

“This is it?” I said.

“She's obviously not here.” Rebecca stepped backward
to force me out of the room. “You saw for yourself that there's no place to hide. There's no way she could survive down here unless she brought food and water and only availed herself of a bathroom in the middle of the night.”

I remembered something Debbie Anne had told me. “What about the ritual closet?”

“How do you know about that?”

“I just assumed all sororities have them,” I lied smoothly. “I'm not going to count the candles or divulge the color of the high priestesses' gowns, but I think we ought to take a quick look. If Debbie Anne heard us coming, she might be hiding in there now.”

“Don't be absurd! It's already been explained to you that she couldn't have a key in the first place. Winkie has the only key. At noon the day of meetings, she gives it to the president so the room can be prepared, and it's returned to her right after the meeting. Pledges never touch the key.”

“But Jean Hall had it for several hours every week,” I pointed out. “If she had a copy made, she might have kept it in her purse. The purse disappeared the night she was killed. You're convinced Debbie Anne is the culprit, so why couldn't she have taken Jean's purse and now have her key?”

Rebecca stewed on it for a moment, then shrugged and allowed me to reenter the room. “Let's get this over with, okay?” she said as she headed for a door along the back wall. As we wound through the chairs, she slowed down and eventually stopped, her nose twitching like that of an amorous rabbit. “What's that nasty smell?”

I could smell it, too, and it brought back memories of my torturous tenure in the Farberville lockup. “It seems to be coming from the closet,” I said, measurably less eager to explore the sacred room. “Maybe we ought to call the authorities.”

“National would have a fit if they found out the police were in the chapter room, let alone if they were allowed to look inside the ritual closet.” She wound her
hair around her neck and stared at the door, her mouth flattened unattractively as she seemingly considered the available options.

I held out my hand. “Give me the key, Rebecca. It's likely that an ammonia-based cleaning solution spilled inside the closet. Tomorrow you and Pippa can mop it up without any illicit tourists to unsettle you.”

She complied, then edged away as I fit the key into the lock and opened the door. The stench roiled out like tear gas, causing my eyes to flood. I made myself stay long enough to see the body on the floor, then shut the door and retreated as far as I could within the room.

Rebecca coughed and said, “What is it?”

“Arnie Riggles is in there,” I said, gulping for air. “He's unconscious but not necessarily dead. We've got to pull him out and do what we can until an ambulance can get here.” I wiped my eyes and cheeks and ordered my stomach to stop convulsing. “We'll both stand by the door. When I say so, you open it and I'll grab him. As soon as I have him out, shut the door and go call for an ambulance.”

It was not something I want to remember, this extrication, but it was accomplished and Rebecca ran out of the room, alternately gagging and whimpering. The worst of the stench was contained within the closet, but Arnie's jeans were soaked with urine and a veritable plethora of new smells made me feel as if I'd been whisked to the Dismal Swamp.

As I studied Arnie's inert form, saliva bubbled out of his slack lips. He wiggled into a more comfortable position and began to snore. I came to the cold-hearted conclusion he was drunk. How he'd managed to end up in the Kappa Theta Eta ritual closet was a bit of a poser, but Arnie was a man of amazing slyness, and I wouldn't have checked myself into the butterfly farm if I'd found him in a baptismal font—or in Eleanor Vanderson's bed.

I retreated to the hallway to wait for the paramedics and campus officers to come storming down the stairs
to collect a despicable drunk. Ed Whitbred had said Arnie had not come to his apartment since his arrest. How had he gotten from a locked cell to a locked closet?

A low, throaty growl interrupted my futile thoughts. I looked over my shoulder. At the top of the stairs sat Katie the Kappa Kitten, her fuzziness silhouetted by the foyer lights, her amber eyes unblinking as she considered how best to rid the Kappa Theta Eta house of this latest intrusion of vermin.

I was sitting in Winkie's suite when the paramedics and campus cops arrived. Rebecca had dressed and taken charge of the proceedings, which was fine with me. I could hear her cool, decisive voice from the foyer, but I made no effort to follow any of the conversations. A wine bottle and mismatched glasses were on the coffee table, and Katie was clutched in Pippa's arms.

“I might as well pack my bags,” Winkie said morosely, but with a lack of sincerity that made me wonder if she was less than horrified by the idea—or secretly confident that it would not happen. “This is inexcusable. Men in the chapter room, and that besotted fool in the ritual closet. Eleanor will be on the phone to National in the morning, and I'll be out on the street by noon.”

Pippa nuzzled the captive cat. “I just don't understand how that man got in there, unless he . . .”

“Took the key from Jean's purse,” I said.

Winkie hiccuped, and with a giggle touched her lips with fluttery fingertips. “Which means he and Debbie Anne are in this together, doesn't it? One or the other, perhaps both of them, ran Jean down, stole her purse, and used her key to get into the chapter room and the closet. What an odd place for him to choose to hide, if that's what he was doing.” She hiccuped and giggled once again. “Are you certain Debbie Anne wasn't in there with him? The two might have found it exciting to come up with a few rituals of their own.”

“I think we'd have heard about it,” I said dryly. My wits were dulled by now, but I battled back a yawn and replayed her remarks—hers and Rebecca's and someone else's. “It's possible there are several keys to the chapter room. You have the original. Jean Hall had a duplicate made. But doesn't Eleanor Vanderson have a complete set of keys?”

“Of course not,” Winkie chided me. “She has keys to all the exterior doors, the bedrooms, and the main-floor storage rooms, but National allows only one key for the basement. Security is vital, quite vital.”

Pippa's dimples were mere shadows on her pale cheeks, and she spoke with the solemnity of an IRS auditor. “And you've got to promise not to ever tell anyone what you saw in there, Mrs. Malloy.”

As if the world's citizens were panting to know how many folding chairs were in the Kappa Theta Eta chapter room, I thought sourly. I was about to expound on this when a campus cop stepped into the doorway. To my delight, he was middle-aged, paunchy—and unfamiliar.

“We've sent the trespasser to the detox unit at the city hospital,” he said. “According to his driver's license, which was revoked eight years ago, his name's Arnold Riggles and he's itinerant. He'll be interrogated whenever he's sobered up, and if he remembers anything, he can tell us what he was doing here. Miss Faulkner took a quick look around and said nothing had been disturbed. She claims she doesn't know how he got there or why. Do any of you ladies have anything to say that can't wait until the morning?”

We shook our heads, and Katie sneezed her denial. He said the investigation would continue in the morning, stressed the need to make sure the house was secured, and promised frequent passes by patrol cars. After a bit more thumping and muttered comments in the foyer, the front door was slammed and Rebecca joined us.

“Have you put a curse on the Kappa Theta Etas?” she asked me as she poured a glass of wine and curled
up at the end of the couch, regarding me with the same meditative glint I'd seen in Katie's eyes. “Up until last week, nothing much happened. Now, every time I leave the house for an audition or to shop, I find myself wondering if I'll return to a pile of ashes.”

“Rebecca!” Winkie said. “You of all people—”

“I was joking, Winkie,” Rebecca cut in.

Pippa dumped the cat and stood up. “I'm going to bed. I have a really tough exam in Abnormal Psych in the morning. Good night, all.”

“Would you wait a minute?” Rebecca said to me, then followed Pippa out of the room. After a hushed conversation, she returned to the doorway and crossed her arms. “It was awfully clever of you to figure out there was someone in the closet, Mrs. Malloy. Thanks so much for warning us.”

“I'm sure Arnie will be equally grateful if and when he sobers up,” I said.

Pippa reentered and handed me my key ring. With a dutifully apologetic smile, she said, “It was my fault, and I'm really sorry for not finding it the first time. I went back and crawled around and around and around the tree until I found it in a hole. I do hope you'll forgive me.”

“I do,” I said hastily, and then left before I found myself in possession of a pink paper cat and yet another invitation to dinner. I hadn't put a curse on the Kappa Theta Etas. Quite the contrary. Vowing to forget the entire matter and dedicate myself to more important concerns, such as bankruptcy and involuntary celibacy, I returned home.

The door was unlocked and all the lights were blazing away. Caron sat cross-legged on the floor, a calendar spread in front of her. She poised a pencil above it, saying, “Okay, I'll put Merissa down for Thursday morning, but Ashley can't do it that afternoon.” She glanced up at Inez, who sat on the couch amid a great flutter of pages torn from a notepad.

“If Tara switches to Saturday,” Inez said with a
frown, “then Ashley can have Friday afternoon. But that means we'll have to juggle the schedule for the rest of the weekend.”

“Hi, girls,” I said cautiously. “Are you planning an invasion? If so, you ought to call CNN and give them some warning. And remember, I don't want to see any nuclear weapons on my credit-card bill.”

Caron crossed out an entry before scowling at me. “We are arranging the schedule for about a dozen My Beautiful Self analyses, Mother. It's very complex, and would be a whole lot easier without interruptions. Look, Inez, some of them may have to change their plans. I Cannot Accommodate every last person who has a dentist appointment or wants to go to the mall.”

Inez peered at one slip, then another, her face wrinkling with dismay until she resembled a distressed Pekinese. “But if Charlene has to baby-sit all afternoon Friday . . . ?”

“She can find a substitute!” Caron banged down the pencil and stalked into the kitchen. “You want a soda?”

I considered asking Inez about the sudden demand for Caron's expertise, but I was afraid I'd hear an answer that would result in indigestion and insomnia. It was well past three o'clock. I went to bed, a pillow over my head to drown out the sporadic outbursts from the boardroom of Caron Malloy, Inc.

The following morning I dallied over the morning paper and several cups of tea, hoping to hear the sound of Ed Whitbred's motorcycle so that we could discuss Arnie's unseemly appearance. It was remotely possible that I was hoping—but with less sanguinity—that Lieutenant Rosen might have seen a report of the most current nonsense at the Kappa Theta Eta house and feel motivated to call for details.

When the telephone finally rang, I carefully put down my cup and blotted my lip with a napkin before I picked up the receiver. “Yes?” I responded melodiously.

“Is Caron there?” said an unmelodious and much younger female voice.

“She's asleep, and I have no idea when she'll rouse herself. If you like, I can take a message.”

There was a distinct sniffle, then the voice said, “You tell her that my dad's a lawyer, and he says what she's doing is blackmail or extortion or something like that, and she'll be in really big trouble if she keeps this up.”

“Who is this? What are you talking about?”

“Just give her the message.”

I couldn't persuade my hand to record a single word of the alarming conversation with the latest anonymous caller. My telephone was becoming a veritable pipeline that spewed out threats and dire warnings. I went to Caron's room and shook her shoulder, but all I received in response to my questions was a grumpy, mumbled admonishment to leave her alone. Her coconspirator kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and although I suspected she was emulating an arboreal American marsupial (more specifically, a
Didelphis virginiana),
I returned to the kitchen, gulped down an aspirin with a mouthful of tepid tea, and left them to be dragged away to a juvenile detention facility by someone with more persistence than I.

Once at the Book Depot, I took out a piece of paper and amused myself making yet more notes of noticeably little help. I made one list of potential blackmailers, grimly adding Caron Malloy, and a second of potential blackmailees. Everyone who qualified for neither list went into a jumble at the bottom of the page, and I was trying to devise categories for them when the door opened.

For her morning outing, Eleanor Vanderson had chosen a robin's-egg-blue seersucker suit with a crisp white blouse. Her accessories included a white belt and pumps, a swirly blue-and-purple scarf draped artfully around her neck, a slender silver watch, and a white straw purse. Clearly, she was in harmony with her palette and destined for chicken salad and bridge. Others
of us, having chosen frayed denim shorts and one of Caron's old gym-class T-shirts, accessorized with a cheap watch and a tarnished wedding ring, also cheap, felt destined for nothing more dainty than a hamburger and a diet soda. However, burdened as I was with the knowledge of her husband's dirty little secrets, I deserved no better.