semester, mostly in order to glower at Jerry and Paula.”
“I thought Sherwood-”
“Herbert Weiss is a notorious lecher, despite a vague presence known as Mrs. Herbert Weiss. She materializes each year for fifteen minutes at the faculty Christmas party, where she smiles politely at everyone, and then vanishes until the following December. I doubt she has any effect on her husband or daughter.”
“Does every male in the building have his eye on Paula?” I asked. “It sounds ominously competitive.”
“As far as I know, Weiss and Sherwood are the primary contenders for the maiden’s hand. To their regret, it is not available for warm, suggestive squeezes.”
The door opened before I could elicit any more details of the idle, but nevertheless interesting, gossip. Sherwood Timmons had a bottle of champagne in his hand.
“I thought we might celebrate the arrival of blessed Friday,” he announced as he went into the kitchenette and put the bottle in the refrigerator. “What is this? Could Emily Parchester have been sneaking around the basement this very morning, brandied peach compote bulging in her purse?”
“She came by to see me,” I called. I did not elaborate, but it wasn’t necessary.
Sherwood stuck his head out the door with an impish grin. “I heard she was a bit
“If Pius hasn’t been pawing in it,” Evelyn said. “I think we ought to use the lounge fund to buy a padlock for the refrigerator.”
“That would merely delay him,” Sherwood said. The refrigerator door closed, and water ran in the sink. “The man could pick it with his teeth if motivation were strong enough.”
While I pondered the wisdom of a diet, the door opened again. The Furies stalked in and took places on a sofa across from me. Miss Dort came in seconds later and continued into the ladies room. Mr. Weiss was next, followed by Jerry and Paula Hart.
Large, black clouds rolled in from the hallway. Lightning crackled invisibly, and thunder crashed soundlessly. The air was thick with odorless ozone. What air there was. I wondered if they really went through this every Friday, and for what reason. Fun, it clearly wasn’t.
Evelyn stood up. “Well, shall we eat?”
Herbert Weiss stared at Jerry, who returned the gaze with ill-disguised anger. Paula tugged at her coach’s hand and whispered something in his ear, but he brushed her aside. Sherwood smiled to himself. The Furies wiggled on the sofa and tried to look uninterested.
“Shall we eat?” Evelyn repeated, a hostess to the bitter end. “Claire, will you help me bring things to the table?”
I strolled into the kitchenette where I had to grab a drawer handle to keep myself upright. “Why are we doing this?” I hissed. “This is not my idea of a gala party.”
Evelyn shrugged and began to pull plastic bowls and boxes out of the refrigerator. She piled them in my arms, balanced a stack of napkins on top, and sent me into the lion’s den. She followed with paper plates, the champagne, and someone’s saltines.
With the high spirits of a funeral cortege, we assembled around the table. Jerry sat down next to Paula at one end; the Furies formed a row across one side, impenetrably grim. The rest of us scattered about to act as buffers. Plastic lids whooshed loudly in the silence.
Mrs. Platchett examined a tidy formation of deviled eggs. “I see no sign that Pitts has been foraging today. It is safe to eat.”
“Alcoholic beverages are not permitted on campus,” Weiss snarled, pointing at the offending bottle.
Sherwood gave him a disdainful smile. “Are we reduced to following petty rules, Mr. Weiss? I presumed we were all above such things, but if you wish to insist…
“Do whatever you want, Timmons. Perhaps we can have a discussion about your manuscript one of these days, if you’re not too busy doing research at the college library.”
“
Weiss disappeared into the kitchenette. The soda machine rattled briefly, followed by a popping sound as a bottle was decapitated. He then called, “Has Miss Parchester been in the building, Bernice? I told her quite firmly that she was not to come back until the auditors have completed their investigation.”
“I’ll telephone to remind her,” Miss Dort said. She picked up her clipboard and scribbled a note.
The Furies looked as though they were on the edge of a rebuttal. Mrs. Platchett eyed the doorway with a frown, and on both sides of her her cohorts flared their nostrils and tightened their lips. Tessa Zuckerman (I thought) actually opened her mouth for a fleeting moment, then closed it with an unhappy sigh. Her complexion seemed excessively gray, as though she were inflated with fog.
Weiss came to the doorway with the jar of compote in his hand. He took a fork to pull out a dripping piece of yellow fruit, and with a greedy look, plopped it in his mouth. “I suppose I’ll overlook her presence in the building this one time, since she did leave a little something for me. I may regret Miss Parchester’s absence in the future; her compote is remarkable. Is there any way we might persuade her to share the recipe, Bernice?”
“I shall inquire when I speak to her.” Miss Dort picked up the clipboard and scribbled yet another note.
“Exactly how much money is missing from the journalism account?” Sherwood asked, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Enough for riotous living in some singles’ condominium for silver-haired swingers?”
“The amount is hardly the issue, Timmons. The funds belong to the students, and the embezzlement is all the more serious because it threatens their trust,” Weiss said through a mouthful of yellow goop. “In any case, I am aware of the gossip this situation has generated, and I want the entire faculty to put a stop to it. It is an administrative concern.”
“I am confident Emily will be found innocent of any wrongdoing,” Mrs. Platchett said. “Then the school can return to its normal routine, and the journalism students can once again have valuable experience in preparation for their careers. Emily quite inspires them, as you well know.”
I sensed an aspersion on the substitute’s ability to inspire said students. “We’re working industriously on the yearbook,” I said, taking a deviled egg with a devil- may-care look. “We hope to complete the sophomore layout next week.” Whatever that was.
“But we have no newspaper over which to chuckle,” Sherwood said. “I was finding the Miss Demeanor column quite compelling, if not exactly Pulitzer material. Just as it was becoming most interesting, it was cut off in its prime. Of course,
“The insinuation of a tawdry scandal is inappropriate for a school newspaper,” Miss Dort sniffed. “Mr. Weiss and I both agree that impressionable adolescents should not be exposed to that sort of thing. As faculty advisor, Miss Parchester had an obligation to forbid the publication of such filth. She refused to comply with the numerous memos I sent regarding the situation, citing some nonsense about freedom of the press. This is a school, not a democracy; the students have whatever rights we choose to allow them.”
Weiss gave her an approving smile as he shoveled in the last of the peach compote. The smile died suddenly. He clutched his abdomen and doubled up as the contents of his stomach disgorged on the carpet. His scalp turned red, his face white. “Bernice,” he managed to croak. “My God! Help me!”
“Herbert? What’s-what’s the matter?” she answered, shoving back her chair to run across the room and clasp his arm. She looked wildly at us over his back. “Do something to help him! Get a doctor!”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Weiss said abruptly, his voice weak but more normal than it had been seconds ago. He yanked his arm free and stood up, a handkerchief already in hand to wipe his chin. “I’m fine now. I don’t know what came over me, but I certainly will not permit it to happen again. Have Pius get in here immediately, and call the carpet cleaning service to make- reservations.”
“Reservations?” Miss Don said. She picked up her clipboard and began to write in precise little scratches, although without her usual briskness. “Carpet service- reservations. Why don’t you lie down on the sofa for a few minutes, Mr. Weiss? You look rather pale.”
He nodded and stretched out on the mauve-and-green. Miss Port left the lounge, presumably to fetch the despicable Pitts, and returned within a minute or two. The rest of us toyed with our lunches, our earlier enthusiasm dampened by the increasingly pervasive stench. Even the Furies seemed to find it difficult to pick up the cadence of sound nutritional practices.
“Damn doctors shouldn’t be allowed to teach,” Weiss said suddenly, his finger poking holes in the air. “Think they’re too damn good for the rest of us.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” Miss Dort said, her voice non-committal despite the bizarre words coming from the principal. She stared defiantly at us, daring us to offer an editorial. No one moved.
“Bunch of copycats,” Weiss said. He jerked up and glared at us through wide, glazed eyes. Suddenly they bulged like balloons as he clasped his throat. Burbling wildly, he clawed the air. His hands froze, and he slowly rolled off the sofa to sprawl on the rug.
Miss Dort scrambled to her feet and shrieked something about an ambulance as she ran out of the lounge. Paula grabbed Jerry, while Sherwood and Evelyn went over to touch the unmoving shoulder with timid fingers. Mrs. Platchett clasped her bosom.
“Oh, my goodness,” she announced whitely.
The Fury on her left sighed, but the third stole the show. “Oh, dear,” she whooshed as she toppled out of her chair. The ensuing thud was fainter and more ladylike than the previous one, but it sounded painful and seemed to bring us out of our collective shock and into action, albeit chaotic and ineffectual.
Ambulance attendants dashed in a few minutes later. The fainted Fury was on a sofa, attended by her sisters. Mr. Weiss was still facedown on the stained carpet; there hadn’t been much reason to worry about his comfort. The rest of us were standing about, wringing our hands both literally and figuratively, while muttering inanities about heart attacks and/or strokes. How sudden they were, etc.
Miss Don came in behind the attendants, and behind her was the rabbity little man I’d seen in the main office.
“Oh, this is terrible!” he sputtered. “I just cannot believe- believe that-that this son of tragedy-absolute tragedy- could-”
“Shut up, Chips,” Miss Dort said absently, intent on the body on the floor. “What was it-a heart attack?”
One of the attendants stood up and studied us with a masked expression. “No, it wasn’t a heart attack. You’d better call the police.”
“Why?” Miss Don countered. Her fingers tightened around the clipboard, which was pressed against her chest like a shield.
“The guy was poisoned, lady.”
Miss Don blanched, took a step backward, and slowly collapsed in the doorway. The clipboard clattered down beside her.
The room was beginning to resemble the forest scene after Mount St. Helen’s eruption. I glared at the ambulance attendants. “I will call the police. In the meantime, why don’t you occupy yourselves with the lady on the floor or the one on the sofa? You do have some paramedical training, don’t you?”
Grumbling, they split up to deal with the supine figures. I went upstairs to the office, shoved past the pimply Cerberus, and snatched up the telephone. The number
