After I’d doctored the wound as best I could, I set off toward the campus, fantasizing about a rustic cabin somewhere in the woods. No one sat beside me on the deck as the sun sank behind the mountains; I was alone with a glass of scotch and a plate of crackers and cheese. I amended it to freshly baked bread and expensive Brie. No one whined, complained, bit me, badgered me, scolded me, or, most of all, sent me into the arms of a tattooed motorcyclist while reclining with a member of the campus security force.
I went into the yellow brick building that housed the education department. Since it was summer school, Debbie Anne was taking only two classes, and at that moment should have been in a classroom being instructed in Reading Readiness Skills, a.k.a. EE1009.
“Whatever they are,” I growled, then accosted a perky young thing in jeans and asked where the room was. The door was ajar, and I hovered in the hall until I determined that Debbie Anne was not among the half-dozen girls numbly gazing at a blackboard as an elderly woman droned at them.
The instructor of Developmental Psychology (EE1147) was not in his or her office, unless he or she was cowering behind a locked door A second perky young thing informed me that classes would be out in ten minutes, and she didn’t know when I might catch Professor Costandaza. She herself had taken the psych course from Professor Simpson because he was “an absolute hunk” and it was all she could do not to “like literally seduce him right there on the desk, you know.”
Fearing for the future of civilization, I read the notices on the bulletin board, gleaming tidbits about symposiums on A-V equipment, potluck dinners, and opportunities to study abroad for a zillion dollars. Eventually something buzzed and students drifted out of classrooms. I went to the original room. The woman was packing her briefcase, and was minimally cordial when I introduced myself and told her my proposed topic.
She consulted her watch, sighed, and said, “I have a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. I heard about the Wray girl on the local news last night, and there was something in the newspaper Very sad business, that, but faculty meetings come right after death and taxes.”
“I was hoping you could tell me about Debbie Anne. Everyone seems to have a strong opinion about her, but also a biased one.”
“When I watched the news, I tried to remember what I could of her I had her last spring in a class, and again this semester. She was shy and quiet, rarely contributing to the discussion, turning in ordinary, uninspired work.” She paused to think. “I do recall being surprised when she wore a sorority sweatshirt to class one day. Fewer and fewer of them major in education these days, but I used to have hordes of them in my classes-to my dismay. Now, I understand, they’re all majoring in business. She didn’t seem the sorority type.”
“Did Debbie Anne ever cheat or lose her temper?”
The woman picked up her briefcase. “No one cheats in Reading Readiness Skills; it’s much too easy. As for losing her temper, I don’t know that she has one to lose Mrs. Malloy. She’s just one of those drab, modestly intelligent, poorly prepared girls from a little town. If this hadn’t happened, she’d squeak by, graduate, and go teach in another little town in order to send us more poorly prepared girls.”
I went outside and sat on a stone bench. For the first time in nearly three days, I’d made progress, albeit measurable in millimeters rather than leaps and bounds. Debbie Anne Wray was a soggy-nosed ninny, accepted into the sorority by an economic imperative and rejected by a social one. Jean Hall had forced her to do something illegal, and this had sent Debbie Anne into hiding. Someone else had gained access to Debbie Anne’s car key and run Jean down in the alley.
There were a few minor unanswered questions, to be sure, along the lines of who and what and when and where and why and how, but I wasn’t nearly as confused as I’d been earlier. Contemplating my next target, I stood up, smiled vaguely at a couple of students, and decided to go back to the Book Depot, where I could make lists in the amateur-sleuth tradition. I would be the sole champion of the cause-the innocence of Debbie Anne. The police detectives could sit and wait. I would take action, make brilliant deductions, identify the guilty, and rescue the innocent.
And this time, I told myself, Claire Malloy would not cringe from the limelight and allow the police to take all the credit. I’d grant interviews, appear on the evening news, pose for photographs in front of the Book Depot. If the mayor insisted on giving me some sort of award for my civic-minded behavior, I’d accept it with becoming modesty.
As I came around the corner of the library, I was practicing smiles rather than paying any attention whatsoever to the trickle of pedestrians. I thudded into someone, stumbled back, and looked up to offer an apology (with becoming modesty, of course). And found myself face to face with the man in the moon. I goggled at him; he goggled at me.
“You!” I croaked.
He quit goggling and gave me a shove hard enough to send me across the sidewalk and into a very old, very hard tree trunk. My head hit first and then snapped forward, pain ripped along my shoulder, and all the breath swooshed out of my lungs. I fell to the ground, fighting to fend off swirls of blackness and to regain my breath.
“Are you okay?” asked a voice so close that I nearly screamed.
I opened my eyes. The boy squatting in front of me had dark hair and a lean, nearly cadaverous face. I finally found enough oxygen to say, “The man in the moon-I mean, the man who knocked me down-did you see him?”
“I saw someone go around the corner, but I didn’t get a good look at him. Maybe you’d better stay down for a few more minutes until everything stops spinning.” He looked over his shoulder at a huddle of students. “Somebody call the campus cops and tell ‘em it’s an assault.”
“No,” I said, but as I tried to straighten up, the black blotches flooded my eyes and my ears reverberated as if I’d taken residence in the bell tower… or the belfry.
“Just lean back, ma’am,” the boy said patronizingly, no doubt certain he knew what was best for an incapacitated octogenarian who’d identified her assailant as the man in the moon.
“Oh wow, it’s Mrs. Malloy!” Pippa squealed as she dropped her books and knelt beside me. “What happened? Did you faint? Caron mentioned that you’re experiencing menopause, and that can make you dizzy or-”
“Someone pushed me,” I muttered. There weren’t very many students in summer school, but the sidewalk was so crowded that most of them must have been drawn to the drama.
“That’s awful! Who?”
“A man,” I said sourly, daring the boy to say a single word. He obligingly stared at the ground. “I crashed into him as I came around the corner, and he overreacted to the lapse in etiquette.”
Pippa dimpled indignantly. “Some men are just plain bullies, aren’t they? My mother was playing golf last week and these men played through without any concern for safety or common courtesy. They let anyone in the club these days. Oh, good, here come the campus cops. Maybe it’s not too late to find this man. He didn’t try to molest you, did he?”
“In the middle of the afternoon next to the library? No, Pippa, he merely removed me from his path.” I recognized one of the uniformed officers approaching as Officer Terrance. The other was a woman, tall and lithe, moving gracefully. I slumped back against the tree trunk and willed myself to pass out. I scrunched my eyes closed. I held my breath. I told myself that the gender of the officer was a coincidence and that I’d had my quota for the day. For the year. I debated whether to make a deal with the devil. What was the worth of my soul compared to the impending humiliation?
“Mrs. Malloy,” I heard Terrance say with what I felt was inadequate surprise. “Do you need medical attention?”