Dear Miss Demeanor

“As well as can be expected, but renal failure is very, very serious. Are you a member of the family?”

“In a way. Does her doctor have any idea how long she’ll be in the hospital?”

The young thing gave me a long, solemn look. “The patient is not expected to recover,” she whispered. “The endometrial cancer is no longer in remission. No other forms of treatment, including the less conventional ones, have had any significant effect, and she has refused further chemotherapy.”

I forgave Tessa Zuckerman for her lie. I made a mental note to send flowers while they could be enjoyed, then thanked the nurse and walked out to my car. A woman nodded as she walked past me, a box of candy in her hand. A worried young man with a child hurried by, followed by an elderly couple and several teenagers. I gaped at their backs. Visitors. Emily Parchester had visited her dying friend, and would do so again.

The next set of visiting hours were from seven to nine P.M. I needed a couple of bodies for the stakeout, since I would have to entertain Peter. I drove to Rhonda Maguire’s garage and steeled myself for both the incipient outrage and the sight of “l3roast the Bantams.” Neither would present a pretty picture. I was right on both counts.

After a hefty dose of cajolement coupled with money for hamburgers and milkshakes, Caron and Inez abandoned their classmates and left for the hospital. If Miss Parchester appeared, she would be tailed by two excited detectives with crepe paper in their hair.

When Peter came by, he was too tired to discuss the case. We drank wine and watched television like old married folks, and he was actually nodding when the telephone rang.

I grabbed it before the second ring. “Yes?” I hissed.

“Mrs. Malloy? This is Inez. Caron told me to call you and report what happened.”

Peter’s head was still lowered. I turned my back to him and hunched my shoulders around the receiver. “What happened, Inez? Why did Caron tell you to call? Why can’t she come to the telephone herself?’

“She is in the emergency room. Even if she could call, I don’t think she’s in the mood to talk about it.”

“What is she doing in the emergency room? What happened?”

“It’s a long story, Mrs. Malloy, but Miss Parchester finally showed up at Miss Zuckerman’s room. We were waiting in an empty room across the hall, ready to tail her to her hideout.” She gulped several times. “Then, just as Miss Parchester started to go in Miss Zuckerman’s room, a nurse spotted us and yelled at us to come out and explain what we thought we were doing.”

“There must be more, Inez. Please get to the reason that my daughter is now in the emergency room and unable to speak to me.

“Miss Parchester jumped about ten feet when she saw us. Caron grabbed her to try to tell her that we wanted to help, but I think it must have scared her. Anyway, she sort of bopped Caron on the head with her umbrella and ran away down the hail.”

“And Caron has a concussion from being assaulted by an old lady with an umbrella?”

“Not exactly,” Inez said, sighing faintly. “Caron and I both started after Miss Parchester, but the nurse got in the way and we all ended up on the floor. Caron sprained her ankle. The hospital security people put her in a wheelchair and brought her down here to get it taped. I don’t think they’re going to let us go, Mrs. Malloy. My mother is going to kill me.”

“No, she’s not,” I said. I could envision the fiasco from start to finish, from the lurkers in the dark room to the current extension of my daughter’s lower lip.

“I have to go,” Inert said in a very small voice. “They won’t let me talk anymore. Will you bring bail, Mrs. Malloy? Caron and I have less than a dollar, and I think we’re in worse trouble than that.”

I assured her that I would be there within ten minutes and replaced the receiver. Peter was still asleep. There was no way to explain where I was going and why. There was also no reason to try, so I opted to let sleeping dogs lie. Better than I.

I left a note on his wineglass and tiptoed out the door.

NINE

I managed to extricate Caron and Inez from the clutches of hospital security, but it took an insurance card, a parental consent form to X-ray and subsequently wrap a twisted-but-not-sprained ankle, and an endless stream of avowals that neither girl would set foot in the hospital again unless they were pre-anesthetized in the parking lot. During all this fun, Caron limped out of a cubicle and shot me an icy look.

“This has been So Entertaining,” she said. “It was all your idea, Mother. I told them that much, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Anyway, I don’t see how you can trespass in a public building. They Do Say this is a public building, don’t they? That means the public can come in, doesn’t it? I am public, aren’t I?”

Nostrils aquiver, she beckoned for Inez to support her. The two hobbled out the door, leaving me to fill out insurance forms under the reproachful scrutiny of a nurse, who seemed to think I was some sort of modern day Fagin. Which I suppose I was.

There was a good deal of sniffing and puffing in the car, but no further rhetorical rampages or comments on culpability. Inert muttered a thanks for the ride and scurried into her house like a leaf caught in the wind. The inarticulate outrage continued all the way to Caron’s bedroom door, where I was informed she could manage quite well without me. No thanks for the ride, either.

Peter was gone, saving me from the necessity of producing explanations (lame/mendacious) for the errand and for the noises that still drifted through the bedroom door. I made a cup of tea and retired to my bedroom to think about Miss Parchester. My theory that she would visit Miss Zuckerman had been right, but she had slipped away without divulging the location of her hideout. And she wouldn’t return to the hospital. The debacle in the hallway would fuel her paranoia. I seemed to have perfected the ability to both find her and lose her. I considered what Peter would do if he ever found out about the scene in the hospital, when the fugitive had fled into the great unknown-again. In all probability, he would not be amused.

I went on to Pitts’s murder, and wasted a good fifteen minutes wondering why he’d been poisoned. Sherwood suspected the custodian had carried tales to the principal, who then used the knowledge to apply pressure to various members of the faculty. Could Pitts have indulged in a spot of blackmail on his own? I glanced at the Falcon Crier, trying to imagine Pitts as the author of the nasty letters. Not Pitts, I concluded, although it would have been charmingly tidy; he hadn’t been capable of pe

But his murder had to be linked to Herbert Weiss’s death, which lacked any motive I could determine. Weiss hadn’t been with the teachers I’d met, and probably wasn’t any more popular with the other faculty members, but someone had taken an extreme view of things. Who? Pitts hadn’t won any popularity contests, either. The rumors might be true, or they might well be the ravings of post-pubescent imaginations. The same minds that evolved the concept of “Broast the Bantams” could surely assign nefarious motives to what might be i

The Homecoming festivities could no longer be ignored. After a gulp of tea to give me courage, I tapped on Caron’s door. “May I come in, dear? I need to ask you something.”

“Does it involve leaping off a cliff to help you with your investigation? Organ donation? Defenestration?”

Alert to the very real possibility of missiles being flung with lethal intent, I eased open the door. “Your ankle must be hurting. Can I bring you another pillow and some aspirins, or loosen the bandage? How about a nice cup of tea and some cookies?”