Dear Miss Demeanor

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.

“Lots of cyanide.”

“There is enough cyanide in the high school to kill off the entire student body and most of Farberville,” Peter said, sighing. “We still have a few other rooms to search, and we’ll probably find an adequate supply for the state. I thought poisons were supposed to be kept away from children.”

“I’m very sorry the murderer didn’t use some obscure South American tree sap.” I toyed with an errant curl above his ear. It never failed to distract him, and I wanted to ease him in to a more pliable frame of mind. “Have you found Miss Parchester yet?”

“No, she hasn’t come home. One of the neighbors saw her leave in a van, but had no idea what kind of van it was. We have an officer waiting at her apartment.”

I tucked my feet under me and tried to look mildly sympathetic, as opposed to extremely curious. I did not ask if the van driver had reflective lenses and the warmth of a drill sergeant. “Did you learn anything of interest in the statements?”

“With a few exceptions, everyone seemed eager to assist us. Now I am well-informed of the bell schedule and the morning class times, the procedure with blue slips, the absentee reports, the alternate bus routes on snow days, and I know more than anyone should about computerized personal grade records. I also heard about Miss Parchester’s little problem with the journalism accounts.”

“All a misunderstanding.”

“Isn’t it interesting how you were available to substitute in the midst of the crisis? One would almost be inclined to think that your presence was along the lines of calling in the Mounties..

“As a member of the community and a concerned parent, I was merely helping out by agreeing to substitute,” I said. Lied, actually-but only because he was looking so damned smug. “The students must have supervision. The perpetuity of the physical structure demands it.”

“And you weren’t trying to delve into the accounts?”

Ah, the burden of a reputation for brilliant deduction. I considered my next move as I refilled our wine glasses. I opted to delve into his accounts-of the crime.

“Miss Parchester left the journalism room at ten o’clock, and presumably put the jar in the refrigerator in the lounge,” I commented in a conversational tone. “The jar was unattended for the next half hour, until I arrived. After that, no one came into the lounge.”

“That’s the time period we’re interested in,” Peter said. “The French teacher-ah, Evelyn West, said that she went into the lounge toward the end of second period for a cup of coffee. She saw the jar in the refrigerator, but did not realize that it was the infamous compote until later. That was at ten-fifteen or so.”

“She didn’t see anyone while she was there?”

“Her student teacher came in for a few seconds, but did not enter the kitchenette. Apparently, she comes in to cry on a regular basis.” He gave me a puzzled look. “Does that make sense to you?”

“No, but I’ve witnessed it. Who else came to the lounge?”

“Bernice Dort, the vice-principal, came by for a soda, and our victim came in with her. Mrs. West says that they were unaware of her presence in the ladies room, but refused to elaborate. Miss Dort confirms the time.”

“No one else came into the lounge?”

“According to the statements, no. You arrived at the begi

I wrinkled my nose and tried to remember. “I think that’s accurate,” I admitted. “But what about the period from ten to ten-fifteen? Was anyone in the lounge then?”

Peter downed the last drop of wine and stood up. “No one has admitted being there, except for the custodian, who says he came in to clean the rest rooms.

“And he has cyanide in his closet! Pitts is the murderer, Peter; I’m sure of it! He’s the slimiest specimen of reptile I’ve ever seen, and he slinks around the building like a mongrel.”

“But he doesn’t have a motive.”

“Yes, he does. Weiss was getting static from the teachers in the basement. Pitts hasn’t been cleaning the classrooms for quite some time, and the teachers were begi

“That’s not much of a motive,” he pointed out. “Did Weiss agree to fire him?”

“It didn’t sound like it, from the report I overheard. But that doesn’t mean that Pitts might not be eager to prevent Weiss from taking drastic measures at a later date.”

“By poisoning all the teachers in the lounge?”

“Maybe not. Miss Parchester wouldn’t have risked it, either. Her dearest friends and staunchest supporters were likely to nibble the compote. She’s hardly a Borgia sort.”

I earned a gaze that blew straight from the North Pole. “I wouldn’t know,” he murmured, “since I haven’t been able to locate the woman for a statement. No one seems to know where she is. Her friends don’t know, her neighbors don’t know, and her brother in Boise, Idaho, doesn’t know.”

“Well, don’t look at me.” Not like that, anyway. “You’d best run along and let me do some work on the yearbook layout. We teachers are a dedicated lot.”

“As much as I’d like to stay and discuss the whereabouts of the elusive Miss Parchester, I wouldn’t want to interfere with your obvious dedication. I’m going back to the high school to see if Jorgeson has found another gallon or two of cynaide in the home-economics room.

We parted amiably, if a shade warily. Corpses have always had that effect on our relationship.

SIX

Nothing much happened over the weekend. Peter called Sunday evening to say the CID was making little progress, but they had confiscated enough poison from the school to wipe out the country, if not the continent. The lab results were not yet in, so they had no theories as to the origin and composition of the cyanide compound. All of the teachers and staff had been questioned again, as had a few students who admitted they’d been in the halls during the second period. I mentioned that I hadn’t been questioned again and was informed that I was not a suspect-or a particularly important witness. What charm the man possessed. The freshman class took me more seriously than he did, even if they overestimated the depth of my desire to avoid the yearbook.

Peter was not especially amused when I asked if he had found Miss Parchester, and his response does not bear repeating. Nor does mine when he inquired about my progress on the layout. The conversation ended on a slightly testy note when he reiterated his order about interference in the official investigation and I laughed. The man requires deflation to keep his head from ploding. It falls in the category of public service.

His utile jibe did, however, remind me of earlier questions about the school newspaper’s most infamous columnist. Said columnist was doing homework on her bed, a bag of potato chips within reach should malnutrition threaten to impair her intellectual skills. The radio blared in one ear, and the telephone receiver was affixed to the other.

I suggested she turn off, hang up, and cease stuffing potato chips in her mouth. After a nominal amount of dissension, we achieved an ambiance more conducive to conversation, albeit temporary and at great personal sacrifice on one party’s part.