We went to the gym. We didn’t, however, jitterbug until dawn. Actually, it was more like three in the morning.
TWELVE
I went the Book Depot the next morning and opened up for business, the ledgers having hinted at the desirability of earning a few dollars, if not an actual fistful or more. I sold books, straightened shelves, filed invoices, and griped long-distance about delayed orders. It was all fairly normal until Caron and Inez limped through the door, gasping and panting. As always, normalcy fled in the face of post-pubescent theatrics. I could not.
“Did you hear about Cheryl Anne and Thud?” Caron demanded.
“No, I heard about a fire at a university press and something about an order shipped to Alaska by mistake, but nary a word about the queen and the jock.”
“They Broke Up.” Caron folded her arms and stared at me, willing me to blanche, grab the edge of the counter, and beg for further details. “They’ve been going steady for Two Whole Years,” she added when preliminary fireworks failed to explode.
“A blessing for the future of the human race,” I said. “I cringe at the thought of the offspring those two might have conceived.”
Inez gulped. “It was terrible, Mrs. Malloy. They had a big scene in the parking lot after the dance, and Cheryl Anne told Thud to drop dead, preferably in the middle of the highway.”
“In front of a truck,” Caron added.
“He was furious.” Inez.
“He called her dreadful names.” Caron.
“Slut.” Inez, with a shiver.
“Cheap little whore.” Caron, without.
“She told him he was a miserable football player, that he ought to play against twelve-year-old girls.” Inez.
“He said he’d played with little girls too long.” Caron.
“He said he was ready for a real woman.” Inez.
The Abbott and Costello routine was giving me a pain in the neck, physically as well as metaphorically. I held up my hand and said, “Wait a minute, please. I really am not interested in an instant replay of their witticisms, no matter how colorful they may have been. May I assume Cheryl Anne was upset because Thud failed to win the game single-handedly and ensure a Homecoming celebration fraught with significance and glistening memories?”
Caron and Inez nodded, enthralled by my perspicacity.
“And,” I continued, “she was especially upset because she had worked so hard to see that he was eligible to play?” More nods. “By the way, how did Thud convince Miss Dort to reinstate him?”
“Nobody knows,” Caron said, widening her eyes to convey the depth of her bewilderment. I wasn’t sure if it came from the inexplicable behavior of her elders or the failure of the grapevine to ascertain the gory details.
“It’s sheer mystery,” Inez said. She attempted the same ploy, but she looked more like an inflated puffer fish. She needed practice. And perhaps contact lenses.
I shooed them out the door and sat down behind the counter. There were too many unanswered questions drifting around the corridors of Farberville High School, too many petty schemes and undercurrents. Too many bits of conversation that might-or might not-have relevance. Way too much gossip.
I called Evelyn, my primary source of gossip. “Who has a key to the building?” I asked once we’d completed the necessary pleasantries. “Very few,” she told me. “Mr. Weiss decided several years ago that loose keys sank ships, or something to that effect. All of the teachers were required to turn in their keys.”
“Sherwood has one.”
“Sherwood lives next door to a locksmith. His copy is illicit, but it’s saved both of us a lot of hassle when we’ve forgotten a stack of tests or one of the dreaded must-have-first-thing-in-the-morning forms.”
“Have you heard of anyone else with a copy?”
“No,” she said after some thought. “Weiss had one, naturally, as did Bernice. Perhaps school board members, although I don’t know why. Head of maintenance, but no one on the level of Pitts.”
“Miss Parchester or the Furies?” I said without much hope.
“Of course not. None of the teachers except an anomaly like Sherwood would want to have an illicit copy of the key. If something happened in the building after school hours, I certainly would like to be able to swear, under oath or polygraph, that I didn’t have access.”
“You’re fond of the anomaly, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am.” The confession sounded sad.
I told her that there’d been someone in the building the night Sherwood and I had indulged in a mild spot of prowling. She was fairly sure it couldn’t have been a teacher-unless it was the one who’d let me in the building in the first place. I was fairly sure Sherwood hadn’t stolen the letters from under my nose. I asked her if she’d heard anything further about the mysterious reinstatement of the jock, and she told me that she hadn’t.
I bade her farewell, took a deep breath, and called Miss Bernice fort. After eleven unanswered rings, I hung up in disgust.
When Peter wandered by later in the morning, I was still behind the counter, staring at the nonfiction shelves and grumbling under my breath. “Any progress?” I asked morosely.
“Miss Parchester continues to elude us, and she seems to be our only decent suspect thus far. The lab reports are back, but they don’t say much of anything we hadn’t already suspected. Pitts ingested more than three hundred fifty milligrams of cyanide, which was dissolved in the whiskey.”
“Was it also organic?”
“It was. A sample has been sent to the regional lab for a more precise analysis, but it’ll take weeks to get the results. We’re presuming Pitts was murdered with-well, with pits.”
“Pitts poked the peach pits.” I said, gnawing on my lip.
Peter grinned. “That’s what you claimed last night, among other more whimsical things.”
“There are too many damn p’s in this. Pitts the peeper, peaches, Parchester, plagiarism, Paula, principals, pouters, poisonous pits, and parades! It’s worse than the jackhammer.”
“Not to mention policemen and prowling prevaricators.”
“Stop the p’s!” I gestured for him to accompany me to my office, where I offered (not poured) coffee and a dusty chair. “I am going to figure this damn thing out without any Farther alliteration. Let’s begin with another source for the toxic substance.”
“It’s definitely organic,” Peter said, leaning back with a tolerant expression. “Officers of the law do not dismiss coincidences; they leap on them. Toxic compote, made from… a certain fruit with a toxic interior.”
“But Jorgeson told me that cyanide is found in the seeds of a variety of fruits. Apples, cherries, apricots, and so forth-why couldn’t one of those be the source?”
“One of them could, I suppose, but we haven’t come across any of them in the investigation.”
I stared at him. “I may have, though.”
He stared right back. “When? What?”
“It’s just a wild guess-but there was a souvenir from Mexico.
“Lots of tourists go to Mexico, Claire; they all buy things to bring home and discard a few weeks later. Hundreds of thousands of tourists, I would estimate.”
“And they go for a variety of reasons, both conventional and unconventional.” I toyed with the theory for a few minutes, trying to find slots for all the disparate bits of information (not pieces of the puzzle, mind you). “Apricots and Mexico. The joint in the desk. Charles Dickens. It almost makes sense, Lieutenant Rosen, although it means we’ve been looking at this thing from the wrong side of the hole.”
“Apricots, Mexico, Dickens, and dope? How many joints did you find in Miss Zuckerman’s desk?”
“Just the one,” I said distractedly. “It was evidence of a sort, although I don’t think we’ll need it for court. The murderer is going to get away with the crime. We couldn’t see the apricots for the peaches.”