beginning to feel the same way. I don’t know how anyone can stand it.”
“The teachers are a sincere lot. They’ve got to be dedicated to put up with the bureaucracy and low pay. There was an odd conversation today during lunch, by the way.” I told him about Sherwood’s crack and Jerry Finley’s retort. “Both of them seem to have secrets that Weiss knew and was using to needle them. Did you find anything about either of them in the personnel files?”
“Nothing that I intend to repeat to a civilian who is not sticking her lovely nose into things that are off-limits.”
He made a amatory lunge for the civilian, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Then you did find something,” I said excitedly. “What was it-criminal records? Falsified credentials? Accusations from parents about incompetency? Was it something serious enough that one of the two would actually poison Weiss to stop him from exposing it?”
“There was nothing significant in anyone’s file. Okay?” He tried a feint and a second lunge, but I slithered from under his arm and gave him a cool look.
“If you think I believe that, Peter, then you underestimate me. You will regret it, especially when I solve this case and prove Miss Parchester innocent of everything, from embezzlement to sloppy bookkeeping to murder. Your aversion to sharing information may slow me down, but it won’t stop me.”
“Would being locked up as a material witness stop you?”
“Not on your life.” Which is precisely what it would cost him, along with beer, sympathy (should it be proffered at some future date), successful lunges, and incredibly witty conversation with a red-haired bookseller. He wouldn’t dare.
SEVEN
The school was closed the next day for Weiss’s funeral. Caron and I attended, as did a large crowd of faculty members and a fair number of students. The minister intoned the phrases, Cheryl Anne and her mother sniffled into sodden tissues, and Jorgeson (Peter’s minion) watched impassively for hysterical, guilt-inspired confessions. We were at last dismissed, our ritual imperatives satisfied. Afterward, Caron announced she intended to spend the afternoon at Inez’s house in the pursuit of algebraic mastery. She departed in a self-righteous glow that failed to impress me.
I decided to see if Miss Parchester had recovered from my last visit. I doubted I would be allowed to speak to her, but it seemed as good a plan as any on a lovely autumn day. I changed out of basic drab and drove out to Happy Meadows, determined to storm the bastion, or at least request an audience.
To my surprise, the guard let me in after a perfunctory search of car and purse. Person was not mentioned. I parked under a yellow oak and went inside, wondering if the inmates had taken over the hospital and declared a holiday from Anabuse and cucumber sandwiches. The sight of Matron shattered my fantasy.
“Well,” she said with a frigid smile, “have we decided to bring our patient back so that we can try to recoup what ground we’ve lost?”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve come to speak to Miss Parchester.” A sinking feeling crept over me as I studied Matron’s less-than-cordial expression. “You haven’t lost her, have you?”
“We do not lose patients.”
“Do we misplace them?”
“It is possible that Miss Parchester has seen fit to leave Happy Meadows without being dismissed by her attending physician. It is most improper for her to do so, and she must return immediately so that the paperwork can be completed and her bill finalized. The insurance work alone takes hours to process.
“When did Miss Parchester leave, and how on earth did she get past the goon at the gate?”
Matron cracked a little around the edges. “We don’t know exactly. We are certain she did not exit through the gate, since it is always locked at ten o’clock. Her room was empty this morning. She had arranged some pillows under her blanket to give the impression that she was sleeping peacefully, and I fear the night staff did not actually enter her room after midnight rounds. They have been reprimanded, and there will be notations made on their permanent records.”
“But Miss Parchester managed to creep out of here at some point during the night and scale a ten-foot fence?” I said incredulously. “It’s ten miles to town, and it was damn chilly last night. Did she have a coat? Have the grounds been searched? Did you call the police?”
My voice may have peaked on the final question, for the white-coated doctor came out of his office to investigate the uproar. When he saw me, he stopped and pointed his finger at me. “You are the woman who claimed to be an attorney! You put my patient in hysterics for several hours after your visit, and undermined hours of intensive therapy. I’m sure your visit was responsible for her subsequent actions. What have you done with her?”
“I haven’t done anything with her, buddy. You people are supposed to take care of her, not allow her to stumble away on a cold, dark night. You’d better pray she didn’t fall in a ditch somewhere and freeze to death! Then you’ll have more attorneys around here than orderlies with butterfly nets and nurses straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” I took a deep breath and ordered myself to stop frothing at the mouth. “Now, what have you done to find her and get her back?”
“Doctor has done everything possible,” the Matron began ominously. I presumed she’d seen the aforementioned movie-and rooted for the head nurse. “He has followed policy.”
Doctor’s eyes avoided mine, and his fingers intertwined until they resembled a tangle of albino worms. “Thank you, Matron. I have indeed done everything to locate the patient. We have sent attendants out to search the estate, but we have nearly two hundred acres of meadows and woods. We fear the presence of the police may frighten the patient if she is hiding in the underbrush, so we have not yet called them.”
I was torn between demanding they call the police and agreeing that they shouldn’t, self-preservation being one of my primary instincts. My conscience finally won. “You’d better call the police immediately; your patient may be wandering down some back road in a daze. Ask for Lieutenant Rosen. He’s been wanting to speak to Miss Parchester
Doctor, Matron, and I exchanged uneasy looks. Doctor took a folded slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “This was found on her pillow this morning during six o’clock rounds. Perhaps you can make some sense of it.”
The spidery scrawl was hard to read, but I made out references to Bernstein, Woodward, and freedom of the press. I sank down on a ladderback chair and propped my face in my hands. Miss Emily Parchester, I bleakly realized, had taken up investigative reporting. Her reputation and her recipe for brandied peach compote were at stake. She was determined to expose a murderer and thus clear her name, along with the judge’s. But where was she now-and what was she doing?
I jerked myself up. “Before you call the police, I need to make one call. In private.”
Doctor escorted me to his office. I dialed Inez’s number, praying the girls would still be there. Inez’s mother, a bewildered woman who has no inkling of her daughter’s antics, assured me that they were in Inez’s room, and soon I had Caron on the line.
I told her what Miss Parchester had done, then asked her to go to the escapee’s neighborhood and watch for her to amble down the sidewalk in pink bedroom slippers. After warning her about the likely presence of a policeman on a similar assignment, I told her to call me at home if anything happened.
Caron was enchanted with the idea of playing detective. She suggested a disguise; I ruled it out and suggested she pose as an innocent teenager. She announced that she would he utterly terrified to go alone. I agreed that Inez was the perfect co-detective for the stakeout. I refused to think up a cede word, then hung up in the middle of a melodramatic sigh.
When I came out of the office, Doctor was hovering nearby, his fingers in a hopeless snarl. “I suppose we’d better call the police,” he said, “even though the publicity will be most detrimental to our program. The newspapers will delight in hearing we’ve let a patient slip out of our care, particularly an elderly one in inadequate clothing, but I suppose it can he avoided no longer. I shall have the Matron place a call to this Lieutenant Rosen.’’
I shrugged a farewell and went out to my car. On the way home, I drove down Miss Parchester’s street and then past the high school. Several little old ladies were out cruising, but none of them were slipper-shod. I pulled up in front of the house, planning to wait by the telephone in case Caron or Miss Parchester called, but I could not force myself out of the car. I knew who the first caller would be, if he didn’t come by in person to harangue and harass me. Withholding evidence. Conspiracy to aid and abet an alleged felon. Bad attitude. Lack of trust. Tuts and sighs.
“Phooey,” I muttered as I pulled away from the curb and drove back to the high school. Maybe Miss Parchester would attempt to find sanctuary with one of her old chums, who was apt to be a comrade. if I could get in the building, I could get addresses from the files and make unexpected visits. It was preferable to positioning myself for the inevitable, tedious, sanctimonious lecture. Some of which, I admitted to myself, just might be justified, if one ignored the humane element. I wouldn’t, but others might.
There was a single car in the faculty lot. The main doors were locked. I took out my car keys and tapped on the glass until I saw a figure glide down the hall toward me. The sound had been adequate to rouse the dead; I hoped I hadn’t. The figure proved to be Bernice Dort, clipboardless and less than delighted to let me into the building.
“Whatever are you doing here, Mrs. Malloy?” she asked once I had been admitted a few feet inside.
A bit of a poser. After a moment of thought, I said, “I came by to pick up the pages for the layout. I seem to have left them in the journalism room yesterday afternoon. So silly of me, but I’m a novice at this yearbook business.”
She gave me a suspicious frown, but finally nodded and adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I presume it won’t take long for you to fetch the pages and let yourself out this door. Make sure it locks behind you. I shall be in the third-floor computer room should you require further assistance. In the middle of tragedy, Mr. Eugenia continues to muddle his midterm data cards.”
I waited until she had spun around and marched upstairs, her heels clicking like castanets in a Spanish cafe. “Thank you, Mr. Eugenia,” I murmured as I hurried down the hall to the office.
The room directly behind the main office was crowded with black metal filing cabinets. As I expected, one was marked “Faculty/Staff.” I was tempted to settle down with a stack of folders, but I was afraid Miss Dort might click into view at any moment. I found the two marked “Platchett” and “Bagby,” copied the home addresses on a scrap of paper, and eased the drawer closed with a tiny squeak.
My mission complete, I decided I’d better find a handful of layout pages (if I could identify them) in case I encountered Miss Dort on exit. The stairwell was gloomy, but not nearly as gloomy as the basement corridor. Some light filtered in through the opaque windows of the classroom doors, and an “exit” sign at the far end cast a red ribbon of light on the concrete floor. A boiler clanked somewhere in the bowels of the building.
I reminded myself that outside the sun was shining, birds were chirping, good citizens were going about their business. My fingers may have trembled as I turned the knob, but I did not intend to meet any psychotic killers or even any adolescent bogeymen. I switched on the light, snatched up a pile of old newspapers and a few pieces of graph paper, switched off the light, and started for the stairs and daylight.
When I heard music.
