Dear Miss Demeanor

“What is Pitts rumored to be doing with students?” I asked.

Sherwood waved his pipe at me. “It’s all speculation, of course, and the man has never been caught in flagrante delicto, but it is whispered in the hallways that Pitts operates a major retail operation from his lair. Not only is it said that he peddles ordinary cigarettes and alcohol, but also that he has such things available as fu

“And this is tolerated?” I said, appalled by both the information and Sherwood’s hlage tone of voice. “The custodian is allowed to sell illegal things to the students and send them to back-alley abortionists-and no one objects?” I stared at the teachers busy with their lunches. “Why hasn’t someone reported him to the police? Don’t you care?”

“I said those exact things,” Evelyn said. “We’ve all repeated the gossip over and over again to Weiss. He always promised to investigate. When we tried to follow up, he would say that there was no proof, and that he couldn’t fire Pitts or go to the police on the basis of idle gossip, especially from a bunch of students with big mouths and bigger imaginations.”

Mrs. Platchett nodded. “He went so far as to imply that we also had oversized imaginations. It was monstrously insulting to those of us who have dedicated ourselves to the education of youth, and I was forced to say so on more than one occasion. I even showed Mr. Weiss proof that Pitts went through the refrigerator during class time, touching our food with his germ-ridden hands and helping himself to whatever caught his fancy.”

I hadn’t exactly warmed up to Mrs. Platchett in the past few days, but I felt a good deal more kindly toward her now. “What did Mr. Weiss do?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Malloy. He did nothing.”

Miss Hart and her coach came in to the lounge, both aglow with young love and/or hunger. She greeted all of us with a warm smile, but Jerry continued into the kitchen and began to feed coins into the soda machine.

“I say, Finley,” Sherwood called, “we’re all dying to know what Weiss had on you. Be a good chap and share the secret with us. We swear we won’t say a word to Mrs. Malloy’s policeman.”

“Can it, Timmons,” growled a voice from the kitchenette.

Sherwood rolled his eyes in feigned surprise. “Cave canem. particularly those with sharp teeth and rabid temperaments.”

“Leave him alone, please,” Paula said earnestly. “It wasn’t anything important, and Jerry doesn’t want to talk about it. Mr. Weiss wasn’t going to do anything; he was just-being difficult about a minor issue.” She turned on the warm smile once again to convince us of her sincerity and unflagging faith in her coach. “Would anyone like some of my salad? I made the dressing myself.”

Jerry stomped out of the kitchenette with a bottle of soda and a brown bag. “Don’t you have a secret of your own, Timmons? Weiss’s comment about the library sounded as if he knew something about you-something you might not want to get spread around the school. Did you kill him to keep him quiet?”

“Or did you get him first?” Sherwood sneered.

“Really!” Mrs. Platchett gasped.

“Jerry!” Paula Hart whispered.

“Sherwood!” Evelyn West muttered.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mae Bagby sighed.

I, in contrast, did not make a sound. But I was scribbling notes on my mental clipboard faster than Miss Dort in her prime could have ever done. And praying I had every word down.

The remainder of the lunch period passed in silence. Each teacher tidied up and departed with noticeable haste. There were no companionable farewells. I made it through the rest of my classes without incident, although I cold-heartedly denied Bambi’s request that she and the staff be allowed to return to the printer’s to remind him the newspaper would not be forthcoming. The blue slips were too much to think about. My darling daughter kept her nose in her algebra book, pretending she was a motherless child. Thud and Cheryl A

During the last few minutes of the last class, a mimeographed page was delivered. It proved to be a missive from Miss Dort, containing information about the flower collection, a thinly-veiled threat not to miss the funeral, another about blue slips, and a final paragraph about the homecoming game and dance. Which was, I realized as a chill gripped me, slated for the immediate Friday. Miss Don would not spend the week in search of a better-qualified substitute, since she would be occupied with the duties of assuming command, even if in a temporary capacity.

It was inescapable: I was going to chaperone the dance unless I solved the murder and resolved the journalism accounts in the next four days, in which case Miss Parchester could resume her duties and I could cower at my bookstore. It did not strike me as probable, considering the quantity of suspects, the wealth of opportunities, and the dearth of motives. I made a note to purchase shin guards and earplugs, not to mention a tranquilizer or two, and a stun gun, should the crowd go wild.

I was still brooding that evening when Peter came by. For reasons of his own, he was back to being Mr. Charm Himself He stirred up a little warmth (he can, if he wishes, be quite adept), then politely asked if he might be presumptuous enough to request beer and sympathy.

I opened the beer, reserving judgment about the sympathy until I figured out what he was up to. “Any luck in the investigation?”

“I spent most of the day in Weiss’s office, but it was a waste of time. Jorgeson says he feels more acned with each hour we spend in that damn place, and I’m begi

“The teachers are a sincere lot. They’ve got to be dedicated to put up with the bureaucracy and low pay. There was an odd conversation today during lunch, by the way.” I told him about Sherwood’s crack and Jerry Finley’s retort. “Both of them seem to have secrets that Weiss knew and was using to needle them. Did you find anything about either of them in the perso

“Nothing that I intend to repeat to a civilian who is not sticking her lovely nose into things that are off-limits.”

He made a amatory lunge for the civilian, but she wasn’t having any of it. “Then you did find something,” I said excitedly. “What was it-criminal records? Falsified credentials? Accusations from parents about incompetency? Was it something serious enough that one of the two would actually poison Weiss to stop him from exposing it?”

“There was nothing significant in anyone’s file. Okay?” He tried a feint and a second lunge, but I slithered from under his arm and gave him a cool look.

“If you think I believe that, Peter, then you underestimate me. You will regret it, especially when I solve this case and prove Miss Parchester i

“Would being locked up as a material witness stop you?”

“Not on your life.” Which is precisely what it would cost him, along with beer, sympathy (should it be proffered at some future date), successful lunges, and incredibly witty conversation with a red-haired bookseller. He wouldn’t dare.