“You were in the school the afternoon Pitts died?” I said. “Did he mention anyone else in the building?”
“Pitts-died?” She turned white and put her hand on her chest. “I had no idea, no inkling of this. I feel quite stunned by the news. Mrs. Malloy, could you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of water?”
I went in the kitchen for water, then decided to hell with it and took the brandy bottle off the table. Once she was settled with a medicinal dose, her color improved to a pastel flush, if not a rosy glow. “You didn’t know about Pitts?” I said.
“No, I am flabbergasted to hear of his death,” she said. “I have not been able to watch the evening news, since I was worried someone might notice a light. Please tell me what happened to him.”
“Let’s discuss the murder of Herbert Weiss first. Were you aware that Miss Zuckerman spied on Pitts through the hole in the ladies room of the lounge, and overheard him selling certain information to Cheryl Anne?”
“She told me several days ago, but in the strictest confidence.”
“Did she also mention that she laced your compote with Laetrile in order to poison him?”
Miss Parchester took a long drink of brandy, then looked up with a bleary smile. “Not in so many words, but I did wonder. I visited her classroom last night to see if her pills might be in a drawer, but I heard a policeman come down the stairs after me. I fled through the exit by the boiler.”
“But you did know she had cancer, and had been to a Mexican clinic to try Laetrile-which is basically cyanide?”
“It seemed obvious.”
The judge had trained his daughter well, I told myself in an admiring voice. Or we had varying definitions of “obvious,” with mine leaning toward “tentatively guessed after a week of agonized concentration.”
“Tessa Zuckerman poisoned the peach compote and Herbert Weiss via a slight miscalculation, but she’s been in the hospital since the day of the potluck. Who do you think murdered Pitts?” I asked her.
“I really couldn’t say, Mrs. Malloy, I really couldn’t say.”
Damn. I’d been hoping it was obvious.
THIRTEEN
Miss Parchester announced that it was teatime, and went to the kitchen. I stayed in the living room with the brandy bottle, trying to work up enough enthusiasm to call Peter and inform him that I’d found his culprit. He wasn’t apt to come roaring over with sirens and flashing lights, in that he knew she hadn’t poisoned Herbert Weiss and her motive to murder Pitts was no stronger than anyone else’s. Pitts hadn’t been blackmailing Tessa Zuckerman, since she was unavailable for such things. He could have been blackmailing someone else, I thought tiredly, but it didn’t seem likely. Blackmail requires secrecy; Pitts had been too eager to share his information.
Miss Zuckerman was the most promising candidate; she had admitted both motive and means, and the poison in the whiskey had also been an organic compound. She lacked opportunity, however. She was the only one who could not have left the whiskey for Pitts, I realized, sinking Farther into both the sofa and despair. Even Miss Parchester had visited the school, and had been invited for a cozy supper of pizza and whiskey. I wondered why her dear friend Tessa hadn’t mentioned Pitts’s death to her during one of their visits; Miss Parchester had been genuinely shocked when I told her.
I decided to ask her why, and went to the kitchen. The tea kettle was on the stove, but it wasn’t whistling Dixie -or anything else. The cups and saucers were on the counter, along with a sugar bowl and two spoons. The back door was slightly open. Miss Parchester was thoroughly gone. It did not surprise me.
Once the tea things were put away and the African violets watered, I let myself out the front door and went to my car. I drove around the neighborhood for a few minutes, but I had little hope that I would spot her on the sidewalk, and I was proved right. Miss Zuckerman’s house was located midway between the hospital and Farberville High School; I drove past both without success, then headed for home, aware that Miss Parchester would resurface in due time-probably disguised as a Maori, a nun, or a circus clown. Or all three, if she felt it necessary to operate as a tipsy, red-nosed, religious New Zealander.
As I unlocked my door, I heard the telephone ring, It was apt to be Peter, irate over Caron’s lie and ready to bawl her out. Feeling as if I were trapped in a round of Russian roulette, I picked up the receiver. “I’m not available to come to the phone right now,” I intoned. “At the sound of the
“Claire, this is Evelyn. I’ve just heard the most astounding news, and I presumed you’d be interested.” When I agreed, she continued, “Jerry and Paula have had a major falling out. She came over to sob on my sofa and repeat numerous times how utterly horrid he was. It seems the coach and Miss Dort have come to an understanding: He’s going to become administrative vice-principal, a position more in line with his credentials.”
“But he’ll get a raise, won’t he? That puts the cottage and babies in the immediate future, which ought to delight her.”
“I pointed that out to her, but she sobbed harder and said I didn’t understand. I didn’t, for that matter, but I couldn’t get anything more from her.” There was a long pause in which I supposed we were both mulling over the inexplicable turn of events. I was wrong. “Sherwood had good news,” she said, sounding oddly hesitant.
“His manuscript has been accepted?”
“Yes, by a university press. He is, quite understandably, elated. After a stream of Gloria in excelsises and other incomprehensible utterances, he said the classics department there had an opening for an assistant professor next semester and wanted him to come immediately for an interview.”
“That is good news,” I said. “You don’t sound especially thrilled, though.”
“I guess I’ll miss his conversations, as obscure and oppressively pedantic as they were. It’s difficult to envision the same with Mrs. Platchett or Mr. Chippendale.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, then I hung up and made myself a cup of tea. Cheryl Anne and Thud had parted ways, as had Jerry and Paula. Miss Don’s long-standing relationship with Herbert Weiss was finished, too, although not by choice of either participant. Evelyn and Sherwood might miss the obvious and end up at far ends of the educational spectrum. I wondered if Claire Malloy might be facing the same fate, due to a well-intentioned attempt to tidy things up and present Peter Rosen with a solution.
It was late in the afternoon by now, and said cop had not returned to chastise my daughter and listen to my latest bit of treachery. I wasted a few minutes chastising myself for losing Miss Parchester-for the umpteenth time, then took a piece of notebook paper and a pencil and sat down at the kitchen table. Charts and timetables had never worked yet, but one did cherish hope.
I listed all the names and drew arrows hither and yon. The paper began to look like a highway map, but I persevered until I had sorted out the relationships. I circled Sherwood’s name as the only possessor of an illicit key, and Miss Zuckerman’s as the possessor of a notably lethal bottle of tablets. I then underlined her name as the possessor of the most brazen motive. But she had been in the hospital, I reminded myself as I decorated the circle around her name with flowering vines.
But she did have loyal friends. Who were likely to visit that evening at seven o’clock.
I was staring at the paper when Caron and Inez slunk into the room. “Peter hasn’t called or come by,” I told the mendacious duo. “He will, of course, so you’d best call in Perry Mason to conduct your defense.”
Caron put her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who bungled things, Mother. Inez and I kept Miss Parchester on the line; you were supposed to find her and deliver her to the police.”