“The random street crime theory is spreading,” I remarked. Well, that theory did fit most of the facts. “There’s lots of support for it,” I admitted.
“Yes, lots of support,” Bolt agreed, polishing his glasses on his tie. “From some high places — the newspaper, the mayor’s office, the public safety commissioner, a deputy police chief, city council, judges, state representatives, television reporters. Odd, isn’t it, to see how many powerful men are rushing to lend support to this particular theory?”
Why was it odd for pubic-spirited guys to care about public safety? “It’s natural for some men to care,” I said, “about whether young women can walk the streets safely.”
Bolt gasped. “Natural for some men to care,” he repeated, “about whether young — good gracious, sir! Do you really think so?”
Sure, I thought so. But I had more pressing matters on my mind: I’d downed a lot of spring water. I lowered my voice. “I’ve got to find the john,” I said.
Bolt nodded sharply. “Oh yes, sir,” he said, not even bothering to speak softly. “By all means, you must find the john. That is crucial — I know that.”
Jeez, how did he know that? Does he read minds too? And did he have to keep everyone in the room posted about my physical condition? “Communication is important, Bolt,” I said, softly, “but some things are delicate. You can’t just broadcast them. Sometimes you have to be subtler, more sophisticated. Understand?”
He knit his brow. “I don’t think so, sir.”
Well, I know I’m no good at expressing things — lots of people have trouble understanding me sometimes. “Sometimes, it takes a genius,” I said, slapping him on the back in apology. With that, I left him and wandered the hallways until I bumped into a door marked “Gentleman Callers.” Essential business completed, feeling far more equal to the task of solving murders, I made my way back to the front hall and saw Bolt locked in conversation with heavyset, frizzy-haired Willie Fenz. She was wearing the same baggy jeans she’d worn yesterday, but in deference to the occasion, she’d put on a black T-shirt, marked by a helmeted profile and the words “Sympathy for the Darth.” And she was crying. Bolt said something, and she shook her head; he said something else, and she hesitated, then nodded; he said another thing, and she broke into sobs. They spoke in hurried whispers for a few moments, and then he turned away, saw me, and sighed.
“Just as you said, sir,” he said sadly. “Sometimes, you can’t just broadcast things — and sometimes, it does take a genius. Of course, the ultimate question remains. Or have you deduced the answer to that too?”
I shrugged — when you don’t know what the hell is going on, shrugging is safest — and pretended to examine the floral arrangements crowding the hallway. Every fraternity and sorority on campus had sent flowers, it seemed. While I was admiring a vase of roses from the Jewish sorority, Nu Nu Nu, a little commotion broke out at the front door.
Bianca Flanders and Nancy Rogers stood on either side of the door, shaking hands and accepting condolences. But then Fletcher Cantrell III, Maggie’s ex-boyfriend, walked in with Maggie’s roommate, Pamela Andrews, clinging to his arm. When Bianca held out a hand to Fletcher, he snarled and backed away.
“This is garbage,” I heard him say to Pamela. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But I need you.” Pamela tightened her grip. “This is so, like, emotional for me.”
“We’re all grieving, Fletcher,” Nancy said. “I think it would help you if—”
She took a step toward him, but he shoved her away. “Back off, bitch,” he said.
Pamela gasped, reminded Fletcher not to use the b-word, and tugged him into the lounge where Bolt and Bianca and Nancy and I had all sat so stiffly yesterday. It looked different now. Curtains were drawn, couches had been moved out to make way for rows of folding chairs, and the bowl of blue M&M’s was gone, replaced by a dark blue candle in a silver candlestick. A huge photograph of Maggie hung over the fireplace, just below a blue satin banner printed with Greek words. Two girls in black, one strumming on a guitar and the other playing a flute, produced an appropriately mournful duet. As more people crowded into the lounge, I nudged Bolt toward the back row, and we waited until the music stopped and Bianca Flanders stepped up to the blue-draped podium.
“We are here,” she said, “to remember Maggie, taken from us by an act of random street crime. Her parents are making arrangements to take her home, but they’re with us in spirit. Now, I ask all members and alumni of Pi Alpha Kappa to rise for our oath.”
Almost all the women in the room stood up — college-aged women, middle-aged women, a few considerably older women, every one of them strikingly attractive and very well dressed. Solemnly, they recited the oath in unison:
“Pi Alpha Kappa — we pledge ourselves to you.
“To Pistay — Loyalty: Our loyalty to our sisters is tested, firm, unshakable;
“To Arete — Excellence: We loyally help each other achieve excellence;
“To Koinonia — Community: Excellence forms the basis of our community.”
Without another word, they sat down. I gotta tell you, I had a lump in my throat.
Next, the guitarist and the flutist led us in “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” It’s a sorry reflection on the state of contemporary music, Mother, that when today’s college kids need songs gloomy enough for memorial services, they have to reach clear back to the sixties. Bianca returned to the podium.
“We don’t have a formal service planned,” she said. “Instead, I’d like to invite people who cared about Maggie to speak. Nancy, would you go first?”
The vice president shared her thoughts about Maggie’s niceness and random street crime’s nastiness. Several other Pi Alpha members followed, all sticking to the same two themes. The mayor’s assistant who’d been quoted in the newspaper spoke too, also bemoaning random street crime. Then Maggie’s roommate stood up.
“When Bianca said there wouldn’t be a real service,” Pamela said when she got to the podium, “I was like, ‘Ohmygod! Why not?’ I mean, even though Maggie wasn’t, like, religious, it’s only, like, right, since she’s, like, dead. So I wish I’d written a prayer. But I wrote a poem. And I didn’t want to make it real long or drawn out. So I wrote a haiku:
“Dark, dismal despair,
“Blindly, hopelessly leaping—
“Pain ends with sad splash.”
It almost took my breath away, it was that good. Pamela sat down again, linking arms with Fletcher Cantrell III; he stared fixedly at the floor.
I nudged Bolt. “Quite some couple,” I said. You know I’m not the judgmental type, Mother, but it did seem wrong for Maggie’s roommate to be playing up to Maggie’s ex-boyfriend so soon. But Pamela would naturally be attracted to a big-man-on-campus type. “He’s the entertainment chair for his fraternity,” I said. “We can’t forget that.”