“I wasn’t making jokes about that. I know what happened, and it’s not in any way amusing.” I began to realize the source of Caron’s eloquent and well-dramatized misery. She wasn’t mourning Jean’s death by any means. “This has to do with your Beautiful Self, doesn’t it?”
“Pippa’s thinking about dropping out for the rest of the summer and going with some friends to France or someplace dumb like that. She says she’s too upset about Jean to stay in the house.”
“And you can’t continue doing the analyses without her?”
“Not if she takes her kit with her,” Caron said with the long-suffering resignation characteristic of the age. “If you’d lent me the money in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this situation, but you wouldn’t so much as invest one lousy dollar in my career Now there’s no way I can buy a car at the end of the summer. All along, you’ve encouraged me to be resourceful and industrious, and you’re the one who said-”
“That’s enough,” I said evenly. “I did not tell you to do something that goes beyond the ethical pale by exploiting your friends. If you want to earn money, line up some baby-sitting jobs or yard-work. Run errands for people. Clean houses.”
She stared at me as if I’d suggested she rob graves in order to sell the body parts. “You’re telling me that I ought to scrub other people’s toilets or rake their leaves or wipe their babies’ noses? I can’t believe it, I really can’t! Come on, Inez, let’s get out of here before Mother decides I ought to ride bulls in a rodeo.”
Inez dutifully followed Caron out the door, and no doubt would nod just as dutifully until indignation faded and some degree of calculation replaced it. In the interim, the pedestrians on the sidewalk could be entertained by a lengthy tirade of artistically colorful phrases, explosive sighs, and accusations of parental perfidy likely to provoke a visit from the Department of Child Welfare.
Two uneventful hours later, the telephone rang, and I answered it with some hesitancy, hoping it wasn’t a social worker.
“Mrs. Malloy?” whispered a voice. “This is Debbie Anne Wray.”
6
“Debbie Anne,” I said, clutching the edge of the counter to prevent myself from toppling off the stool to shatter like a cheap vase, “where are you?”
“I can’t tell you. I was just calling to ask you to let my mama know I’m all right. They might have her line tapped so they can trace calls. It’s long-distance, but I swear I’ll pay you back when all this is oven Every last penny of it.”
“I’ll make the call for you, but you must tell me where you are, Debbie Anne, so that I can come pick you up. You’re in trouble, and hiding out is not going to help the situation.”
“Golly, Mrs. Malloy, you think I don’t know I’m in trouble? I should have stayed home and maybe gone to the junior college like my friends, but my mama insisted I go to school in Farberville, and look where it’s got me!”
“Where?” I said cleverly.
“In a passel of trouble, that’s where. Please won’t you call my mama for me? If the police call her first, she’ll most likely have a heart attack right there in the middle of the kitchen.” She rattled off a telephone number, waited until I regained a semblance of consciousness and found a pencil, repeated it, and added, “Don’t worry about me, Mrs. Malloy. She’ll never find me, and even if she figures it out, she’ll be too scared to come here. Once she’s been arrested, I’ll come right to your store and pay you back for the call.”
“Who is this ‘she’ you keep mentioning, Debbie Anne?”
“I’d like to tell you, but I promised I wouldn’t. If I did, I’d be in worse trouble than I already am. Why, they could arrest me, you know, and lock me up tighter’n bark on a tree-especially if she lies about it and they believe her. In the end everybody’ll know it was her idea, but I don’t aim to sit in jail until she admits it.”
I closed my eyes and sought inspiration, but nothing was forthcoming (except an embryonic headache). However, I was a wily and well-seasoned inquisitor, and she was but a freshman in more ways than one. I took a wild guess. “I don’t think Winkle would want to see you in jail. She’ll admit it.”
“Huh? I’m talking about Jean Hall, Mrs. Malloy. Somebody just drove up, so I’ve got to go. Have a nice day.”
After I’d grown bored listening to the dial tone, I replaced the receiver and tried to make sense of the conversation. Unless Debbie Anne was terrified by the possibility of being haunted by a diaphanous, chain-rattling law student, she wasn’t aware that Jean was dead. On the contrary, she was worried about being locked up “tighter’n bark on a tree” (the quaint phrase did not refer, presumably, to a birch tree) because of something Jean might accuse her of doing, or of having done, or of planning to do in the future. Whatever it was would result in incarceration until Jean admitted her guilt, at which time Debbie Anne would be vindicated.
I knew Debbie Anne’s parents had been contacted by the police, but I’d promised to call them and I was a bit curious about their reaction. No one answered, nor did a mechanized voice suggest I leave a message at the sound of the beep. Resolving to remember to try later, I tucked the piece of paper with the number into my pocket.
The police were not usually brought in on cases in which the perpetrator shared the secret whistle with someone outside the sisterhood. Surely Debbie Anne knew that, I told myself as I dialed Peters office number. He was out, I was informed by a woman with a chilly voice, who subsequently declined to share the details of his destination or his estimated time of return. I left a message for him to call, waited the rest of the afternoon for him to do so, periodically tried Debbie Anne’s home number with no success, and locked the store at seven.
I hesitated under the portico that had once protected ladies with bustles from rain when they’d debarked from the train and waited for their carriages. These days the ladies tended to wear jeans and T-shirts, and rarely bustled. Nor, frankly, did I, even during prosperous times when I could afford such behavior
The beer garden was too rowdy for my taste on Saturday evenings, and my apartment was apt to be occupied by a teenaged tragedienne who’d had all afternoon to drape the living room in black crepe and polish her performance for the final act. Unwilling to be subjected to it, I walked up the hill to Luanne’s store to see if I could interest her in fajitas, cheese dip, and speculation.
The “closed” sign hung on the inside of the door, and the windows of her apartment above the store were dark. I couldn’t remember if Luanne had mentioned plans for the evening, but it didn’t much matter As I stood on the sidewalk, hands on my hips, frowning at my undeniably comely reflection while I debated what to do, I felt a twinge of sympathy for Debbie Anne Wray. How many nights had she been in the mood for food and chatter, only to be rebuffed by her so-called sisters? She had no place else to go, no one else on whom to rely.
I had my apartment, but I would be forced to listen to Caron’s insufferable whines. The Book Depot was bleak and inhospitable after dark, inclined to creak as if trains of bygone days were racing by to the next abandoned station. If Peter were home, we could cuddle on the sofa and watch inane movies, but he might be occupied until all hours. It occurred to me that I’d insulated myself too well, and my insistence on self-reliance would reduce me to a half order of fajitas.
“Ho, Mrs. Malloy,” called a familiar voice as a bicycle sailed down the sidewalk on what I felt was a collision course.
I shrank into the doorway and fluttered my fingers at my science fiction hippie. In honor of the weekend, he’d combed the crumbs out of his wispy beard and tied his ponytail with a relatively clean shoelace. His blue workshirt was unsoiled, if also unironed. He braked in front of me and put a foot down to steady himself.
“You ever find that copy of Bimbos?” he asked. Behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, his eyes sparkled, either from friendliness or from the recent inhalation of an illicit substance.