Poisoned Pins

“Oh, really? I thought hazing was outlawed on this campus after one fraternity boy jumped off the roof and fractured his leg, and another nearly died of alcohol poisoning.”

She stopped snuffling to give me a prissy frown. “We don’t allow alcohol in the house, or smoking, either. Some of the seniors smoke in their rooms, and everybody knows Winkie keeps wine in her refrigerator and a bottle of brandy under her bed. One night when I couldn’t sleep on account of worrying over my midterms, I went down to get a glass of milk and I could have sworn I heard a man’s voice right there in Winkie’s suite. I asked her about it the next morning, and she got real peevish with me and told me I’d better stop imagining things and concern myself with my grades. When I told Jean about it, she just laughed and said the same thing Winkie did.”

I clucked my tongue. “Let’s hope National never hears of this. So, what pledge activities would scandalize your preacher back home?”

“Mostly silly stuff, but sometimes… well, you know, things that sure might…“ She gulped and turned away, but not before I saw the red blotches on her cheeks. “I shouldn’t talk to you about those things. If anyone overheard me, I’d be out on my fa

I took a tissue from the box below the counter and gave it to her “If you’re so miserable, why not quit and live in a dorm?” I said pragmatically, if not sympathetically.

“Mama would skin me alive if I quit,” she said. “I just can’t make her understand that most of the girls make fun of me. Jean’s been real kind about lending me clothes, and Pippa did that color thing for half price, but it didn’t do any good. I don’t dress like them, talk like them, have families like them, or drive fancy cars like them. Everything about me’s wrong, according to them. My hair, my accent, my major-everything!”

She sank to the floor and began to snuffle with increasing vigor, until she was sobbing and I was trying to decide what to do about her. Since there were no customers, she was not likely to discourage sales, but it seemed rather cold-blooded to simply watch her until she subsided and I could shoo her out the door. On the other hand, I had no desire to cuddle her in my arms and make soothing noises while she splattered my shirt with tears, not to mention less desirable fluids. She was a wet creature, I thought, and inclined to dribble on every possible occasion.

I opted for a middling approach. “Come now, Debbie A

She wiped her nose and looked up at me. “I don’t see how I can ever be initiated. I’m too scared to go into the chapter room after what happened at the last meeting.”

“Jean said you’d been inadvertently locked in the room!”

“Inadvertently my foot! Jean asked me in a real sugary voice to put away the candles in the ritual closet, then locked the closet door, turned out the lights, and left. I was there for most of an hour, beating on the door and screaming, but nobody could hear me on account of the chapter room’s in the basement. She locked that door, too, and the one at the top of the stairs.”

“The ritual closet? What exactly is a ritual closet?” I asked, allowing myself to entertain macabre visions of mutilated cat corpses.

The bell tinkled before she could answer, to my regret. It was a customer of sorts, a whiskery, pony-tailed science fiction freak of indeterminate years who resided in a reality that mirrored whatever he was reading. He blinked at Debbie A

Debbie A

I was intrigued by the arcanum. “You have a secret whistle? Please, I beg of you, let me hear it. I promise I’ll erase the memory afterward and never so much as exhale in any similar way.”

“I can’t! I’m sorry I bothered you, Mrs. Malloy. I’m desperate for some advice, but I can’t tell you about what goes on at the house. You’re not a Kappa.” Having delivered the ultimate insult, she grabbed her book and fled.

I was disappointed, but I reassured myself that my curiosity might yet be assuaged and turned my attention to this rare and precious commodity-the customer. “Finding anything good?” I called.

He poked his head over the top of the rack. “No, not as of yet. I was go

“I do have a copy,” I interrupted. I was about to give him specifics when it occurred to me that he might not be in a right-left mode. I joined him in front of the gaudy covers. “I saw it several days ago, right…, in that empty space.”

“So maybe you sold it?” he said.

Recalling sales was unpleasantly easy. “No, I didn’t,” I said with a puzzled frown. “I’m certain I had the one copy and it was there two or three days ago. I’ve sold some romances, a few classics that are on the high school reading list for the fall, a book on building decks, and a cookbook. That’s it for the week. If I didn’t sell it, someone stole it!”

I stomped back to the counter, reached for the telephone, and then lowered my hand, and, I hoped, my blood pressure. It was doubtful the police would rush to the scene of the crime to fingerprint the rack and take photographs of the ominously empty spot. Not for a paperback that cost less than four dollars.

“Wow, what a bummer” my SF freak said as he left. “Wow, what a bummer,” I echoed under my breath as the bell tinkled and the cash register stayed mute. “What a bummer, indeed.”

4

At some point Caron had groveled and I’d granted a period of probation, although I’d made it clear that I considered her a habitual offender who’d best tiptoe through the rest of the summer unless she wanted to walk through the rest of her high school years. Peter seemed to have tiptoed off to battle larcenous mall rats, which was fine with me.

On Friday I called Lua

“A secret whistle, if you can imagine,” I said to her after we’d settled down at a corner picnic table shaded by a lush wisteria vine. “I always associated that kind of thing with the male-only clubs where they wear fu

Lua