Nothing beyond being the freshman class’s candidate for murderer, I thought bleakly. “There have been a few developments. Have the police not contacted you to discuss them?”
“Then the auditors are certain I was remiss in my accounts? Oh, Mrs. Malloy, whatever shall I do? The Judge must be rolling-”
“In his grave, on a rotisserie. Where is this establishment, Miss Parchester? I do think I’ll come by for a visit today. Immediately.”
She gave me directions, and I hung up. Caron and Inez were both flipping through magazines, competing for the title of Miss Nonchalance. I wondered what Caron found so fascinating in Bookseller’s Monthly Digest, but I didn’t ask. Instead, I said, “I’m going out for an hour or so, girls. Can you feed yourselves without burning down the kitchen?”
“Who was that on the telephone, Mother?”
“My Avon lady. The winter mascara has just arrived, and it may be my color. I’ll see you later.”
“What shall I tell Peter if he calls?” she continued, her lips pursed in great innocence as she adjusted an invisible halo.
“Tell him that I’ll test ‘Tarnished Copper’ first.”
Miss Parchester’s so-called establishment was several miles out of town. The name was vaguely familiar, and I recalled its reputation when I stopped in front of a ten-foot-high iron gate. A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire disappeared into the woods in both directions, creating a formidable enclave designed to keep out hikers and stray dogs. Happy Meadows Home was not an ordinary country inn; it catered not to vacationers, but to inmates.
A guard appeared at my window, his eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. “You got business here?”
I checked my lipstick in the twin reflections. “I have come to see Miss Emily Parchester.”
“You got permission from the office?”
“I was not aware I needed permission from the office,” I said, mimicking his surly tone. “is this a prison, and is Miss Parchester locked away somewhere in solitary confinement? For that matter, where are the happy meadows-and your supervisor?”
“I’ll have to call the office, lady. No one’s supposed to go in unless they got business.” He went into a gatehouse and reappeared after several minutes. “You can talk to her medical advisor, but before you go in, I’ll have to search your car and your person.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said as I rolled up the car window. When the gate remained closed, I gave up and allowed the officious goon to search my car and purse, although I rebelled when he made a move toward my person. It has never been searched thus far-at least not for weapons or whatever he feared I had stashed under my unmentionables.
He ran a professional eye over my body, shrugged, and locked the gate. Wishing I had concealed a submachine gun on my person, I drove along a winding road to the front of a stately white house. No bars that I could see, but the goon at the gate did discourage trespassers. Once inside, I stopped at the reception desk and asked for Miss Parchester’s room number.
I ended up in a claustrophobic room with a pale young man in a white coat. All he lacked was an oversized net and a hunchbacked, lisping lab assistant. “You wish to see Emily Parchester? This is highly irregular. Are you a family member or merely a friend?”
“I’m her attorney. She called me to discuss matters that are confidential.” When he paled further, I went for the jugular. “The matters concern her incarceration in a certain establishment.”
“Her stay is voluntary.”
“That remains to be determined, perhaps through the auspices of our legal system. Now, if I may see my client-“
I was told that she was on the terrace, having tea. Feeling like a red-haired Joyce Davenport, I sailed out of the room and minutes later found myself with a porcelain teacup in one hand and a mushy cucumber sandwich in the other.
Miss Parchester beamed at me. “I am absolutely thrilled by your little visit, Mrs. Malloy. Although this establishment is restful, it does get a teeny bit boring. Now, what can I do to assist your investigation?”
“I still haven’t found the accounts,” I told her, suddenly remembering my appointment for that evening with Sherwood Timmons. It was out of the question now; I hoped he would realize the police might notice the two of us creeping down the hall. “Things are rather complicated at the moment, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to try to analyze the deposit slips.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best. You’re so kind to take on this burden for me; I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ve been so fortunate.”
Without me, she wouldn’t have visited the journalism room and dropped off her little gift in the lounge. She wouldn’t have been accused of murder. She wouldn’t have a policeman in the bushes beside her house or a supercilious lieutenant determined to arrest her at the first opportunity. I decided not to tell her how fortunate she was until I had cleared her name, along with the Judge’s and dear mamma
“You’re more than welcome,” I murmured. “I was curious about the brandied peach compote, Miss Parchester. Did you use your normal recipe?”
“I used Aunt Eulalie’s recipe, dear. It’s been in the family for years and years. The Judge always spoke highly of it.”
“And you didn’t add anything to it?” I continued, inwardly wincing at the necessity of grilling an old lady, even if it was for her own good.
“No, I followed the recipe religiously.” The faded blue eyes narrowed. “Was there something wrong with it? A funny taste or peculiar odor? The peaches were a few days old, and of course they’re not as fresh as they were when one bought them directly from the farmer who came to the house in his wagon, but-”
I interrupted to tell her as gently as I could about the lethal consequences of the compote. Her teacup shattered on the flagstone surface as she turned ashen. A cucumber sandwich fell unnoticed in her lap, and then tumbled onto her fuzzy pink slipper.
“Surely you speak in jest, Mrs. Malloy! I’ve made hundreds of gallons of my special peach compote in my life, and no one has ever accused me-accused me of-of poisoning-murdering someone with-with-oh, dear!”
She stood up, looking frail and ill. The cucumber sandwich was smashed to a white circle as she fled inside, leaving me alone on the terrace.
I popped the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and started for my car. A grim matron stopped me at the front door.
“You’re the one who upset us, aren’t you? Who are you and what did you say to us? We’re beyond coherence, and I cannot get a word out of us. We are likely to have a relapse at any moment, just when we’re beginning to become nicely dried out and calm.”
“I told us that a certain police detective thought we might have poisoned our boss with peach compote,” I explained politely. “If we have any sense at all, we’ll keep us out of sight until this thing is cleared up. We hope that we won’t have to tell anyone that we’re at Happy Meadows, but we have a low pain threshold, and they may force us to talk.”
I left her to ponder the pronouns and went to my car. When I arrived at home, it was blessedly still. I learned from a scrawled note that Caron and Inez had gone out, destination unspecified. I heated a Lean Cuisine, painted my toenails, ate, and tried to watch television, which wasn’t easy under the best of circumstances. I was staring at a blank screen when the doorbell rang.
Peter came in, his face lined with fatigue. I gave him a glass of wine and sat down beside him. “Did we-I mean you, find any cyanide in the building?”
“We found cyanide compounds in the journalism darkroom, in the custodian’s supply closet, in the secretary’s desk to kill roaches, and in both the biology and chemistry labs. We also found a jar of rat poison in the girls’ locker room and another in the band room. And another in the art room.