He settled for the expression of a basset hound put outside on a cold night.
Evelyn gave him a cold look as she joined me in the doorway. We left the room and made our way back to the hall, Pitts’s sputters and whines drifting after us like a breeze from a chicken house.
“Brava,” I murmured. It had been impressive.
She was shaking with anger, but her expression held a hint of satisfaction. “I meant every word of it. That filthy man is finished at this school and at every other school in the system. He can go clean sewers, which is what he deserves. On the other hand, I deserve a medal, a bouquet of long-stemmed roses presented by a lispy, angelic child, and a year’s sabbatical to Paris to brush up on my vocabulary.”
“When did you notice the hole?”
“This morning, but I have no idea how long it’s been there. It almost makes me ill. Not only could he watch us adjust panty hose and hike our skirts, he could probably hear every word said in the lounge when the door was ajar. Lord, I feel the need of a shower, or at least a rubdown with disinfectant.”
I was in the midst of agreeing with her when the bell rang and students exploded into the halls. I retreated to the journalism room to meet my first-period class. Said group was silent and soberly watchful as I entered the room and sat down behind the desk. It took me a moment to recall that they were freshmen- and we all knew whom the freshmen had chosen as their candidate for Weiss’s murderer.
After some deliberation, I decided to let things stand as they were, It did keep the class under control, in that they seemed to feel it necessary to watch me for signs of imminent attack upon their persons. I tossed over the roster book and leaned back to think about the murder, since I, armed with the wisdom of age and the inside track, knew the freshman class was mistaken.
I had reached no significant conclusions when the bell rang and the class galloped away. The second-period class came, milled around quietly, and left at the bell, as did I. The lounge was empty, which suited me well, and I was dozing on the mauve and green when the sound of water in the kitchenette roused me.
A Fury entered the main room, a porcelain cup and saucer in hand, and offered me a timid smile. Tessa Zuckerman had not been seen since her collapse during the distasteful events of the potluck, and Mrs. Platchett was difficult to confuse with anything except, perhaps, a bulldozer. Therefore, I deduced that it had to be Mae Bagby. And Caron swears my mental capacity is changing in inverse proportion to my age.
“How is Miss Zuckerman?” I asked. “Has she recovered?”
“She’s still in the hospital, and the doctor wants to keep her a few more days. She hasn’t been well for several years, you know, because of female problems, and her strength isn’t what it ought to be.” The Fury perched on the edge of a chair, her back rigidly erect, her knees glued together, and her ankles crossed at a proper angle. She looked dreadfully uncomfortable, especially to someone sprawled on a sofa. “We are taking up a collection to send her flowers,” she continued in a thin waver, “although you certainly wouldn’t be expected to donate anything since you hardly know her.”
“But I would be delighted,” I said. It was one of the perils of aligning oneself with any group, from secretarial pools to construction workers’ unions. Someone’s always being born, married, or buried-all of which require a financial contribution from coworkers. “Is there also a collection to send flowers for Mr. Weiss’s funeral?”
Mae Bagby turned pale, and the teacup began to rattle as though we were in the early stages of an earthquake. “Bernice is taking care of that, I’m sure. Bernice is very efficient about that sort of thing. You might inquire in the office later in the day, or wait until there is a mimeographed note. There is one almost every day during sixth period. The collection for Tessa is a more personal gesture from those of us who frequent this lounge, our little group.”
One of whom was apt to have poisoned Weiss. Before I could mention it, Miss Bagby stood up and drifted into the kitchenette to dispose of her cup and saucer. She then visited the ladies room (I hoped Pitts had retired from peeping), gave me another timid smile and a cozy wave, and left the lounge in a flurry of faint creaks from her crepe-soled shoes.
Once she was gone, I found myself wondering if she had really been there, or if I had hallucinated the presence of a shade, a ghost of teachers past. All schools were likely to have a few in the darkest corridors, moaning at the transitory fads and disintegrating moral standards. Rattling lockers at midnight. Reading faded files of students long since departed, in both senses of the word.
I was getting carried away with my Dickensian reverie when I was saved by the bell. Evelyn and Sherwood came in the lounge, followed by Mrs. Platchett and Mae Bagby, who was still insubstantial enough to warrant a second look. Once everyone opened Tupperware, took sandwiches from plastic envelopes, fetched drinks, and found seats around the table, I asked Evelyn if she had reported the custodian to Miss Don.
“Yes, I did, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to him, and I really don’t understand.” She told the others what we had discovered during homeroom, which produced a considerable amount of outrage from all except Sherwood, who looked smugly amused.
“What did Bernice say?” Mrs. Platchett demanded.
Evelyn sighed. “She was horrified, naturally. Then she said things were too chaotic to deal with the problem immediately, and once we settled down she would inform the proper authorities. I presumed she was the proper authority. I put tape over the hole, but I won’t feel comfortable in the ladies room until Pitts is gone- permanently.”
“Nor shall I,” said Mrs. Platchett. “I am surprised that Bernice did not react with more forcefulness. Surprised and disappointed, I must add. I could never determine why Mr. Weiss tolerated Pitts’s slovenly work and disgusting presence, not to mention the possibility that he was corrupting some of our students. One must surmise Mr. Weiss had his reasons. Bernice should know better.”
“What is Pitts rumored to be doing with students?” I asked.
Sherwood waved his pipe at me. “It’s all speculation, of course, and the man has never been caught
“And this is tolerated?” I said, appalled by both the information and Sherwood’s hlage tone of voice. “The custodian is allowed to sell illegal things to the students and send them to back-alley abortionists-and no one objects?” I stared at the teachers busy with their lunches. “Why hasn’t someone reported him to the police? Don’t you care?”
“I said those exact things,” Evelyn said. “We’ve all repeated the gossip over and over again to Weiss. He always promised to investigate. When we tried to follow up, he would say that there was no proof, and that he couldn’t fire Pitts or go to the police on the basis of idle gossip, especially from a bunch of students with big mouths and bigger imaginations.”
Mrs. Platchett nodded. “He went so far as to imply that we also had oversized imaginations. It was monstrously insulting to those of us who have dedicated ourselves to the education of youth, and I was forced to say so on more than one occasion. I even showed Mr. Weiss proof that Pitts went through the refrigerator during class time, touching our food with his germ-ridden hands and helping himself to whatever caught his fancy.”
I hadn’t exactly warmed up to Mrs. Platchett in the past few days, but I felt a good deal more kindly toward her now. “What did Mr. Weiss do?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Malloy. He did nothing.”
Miss Hart and her coach came in to the lounge, both aglow with young love and/or hunger. She greeted all of us with a warm smile, but Jerry continued into the kitchen and began to feed coins into the soda machine.
“I say, Finley,” Sherwood called, “we’re all dying to know what Weiss had on you. Be a good chap and share the secret with us. We swear we won’t say a word to Mrs. Malloy’s policeman.”
“Can it, Timmons,” growled a voice from the kitchenette.
Sherwood rolled his eyes in feigned surprise. “
“Leave him alone, please,” Paula said earnestly. “It wasn’t anything important, and Jerry doesn’t want to talk about it. Mr. Weiss wasn’t going to do anything; he was just-being difficult about a minor issue.” She turned on the warm smile once again to convince us of her sincerity and unflagging faith in her coach. “Would anyone like some of my salad? I made the dressing myself.”
Jerry stomped out of the kitchenette with a bottle of soda and a brown bag. “Don’t you have a secret of your own, Timmons? Weiss’s comment about the library sounded as if he knew something about you-something you might not want to get spread around the school. Did you kill him to keep him quiet?”
“Or did you get him first?” Sherwood sneered.
“Really!” Mrs. Platchett gasped.
“Jerry!” Paula Hart whispered.
“Sherwood!” Evelyn West muttered.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mae Bagby sighed.
I, in contrast, did not make a sound. But I was scribbling notes on my mental clipboard faster than Miss Dort in her prime could have ever done. And praying I had every word down.
The remainder of the lunch period passed in silence. Each teacher tidied up and departed with noticeable haste. There were no companionable farewells. I made it through the rest of my classes without incident, although I cold-heartedly denied Bambi’s request that she and the staff be allowed to return to the printer’s to remind him the newspaper would not be forthcoming. The blue slips were too much to think about. My darling daughter kept her nose in her algebra book, pretending she was a motherless child. Thud and Cheryl Anne did not appear during their appointed hour; I marked them absent without a qualm.
During the last few minutes of the last class, a mimeographed page was delivered. It proved to be a missive from Miss Dort, containing information about the flower collection, a thinly-veiled threat not to miss the funeral, another about blue slips, and a final paragraph about the homecoming game and dance. Which was, I realized as a chill gripped me, slated for the immediate Friday. Miss Don would not spend the week in search of a better-qualified substitute, since she would be occupied with the duties of assuming command, even if in a temporary capacity.
It was inescapable: I was going to chaperone the dance unless I solved the murder and resolved the journalism accounts in the next four days, in which case Miss Parchester could resume her duties and I could cower at my bookstore. It did not strike me as probable, considering the quantity of suspects, the wealth of opportunities, and the dearth of motives. I made a note to purchase shin guards and earplugs, not to mention a tranquilizer or two, and a stun gun, should the crowd go wild.
I was still brooding that evening when Peter came by. For reasons of his own, he was back to being Mr. Charm Himself He stirred up a little warmth (he can, if he wishes, be quite adept), then politely asked if he might be presumptuous enough to request beer and sympathy.
I opened the beer, reserving judgment about the sympathy until I figured out what he was up to. “Any luck in the investigation?”
“I spent most of the day in Weiss’s office, but it was a waste of time. Jorgeson says he feels more acned with each hour we spend in that damn place, and I’m
