Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

I showed the last picture to Bolt. “Sorority sisters?” I suggested.

He nodded. “Pledge class, most likely — rather small, but as I recall, Pi Alpha Kappa takes just a few girls each year. It does more community service than the larger sororities, though, including youth outreach programs promoting healthful lifestyles.”

Now that he mentioned it, I remembered Kevin had gone to a sorority-sponsored event at his school — a Have Fun Without Alcohol Halloween party, I think it was. Later, Ellen had to tell him to watch his language when he made a crack about Putrid Alpha Krappy parties; maybe that was middle-school code for Pi Alpha Kappa.

I handed the purse to Bolt. “We’ll go through this more carefully later,” I said. “Right now, let’s call that dean.”

We got a recorded message at his office — on a Sunday, I’d expected that. When we tried his home, his wife answered. “He’s on campus,” she said peevishly. “Where else would he be? Home with his wife? Don’t be stupid. Call the student center. He said he was going to an alumni luncheon. If he’s not really there, call back and let me know.”

Ouch. Fortunately, he was there, all right. I broke the news gently.

“Oh good heavens,” Edward Collard said. “One of our students? You’re sure? Drowned? Oh good heavens. Maggie Warren? Yes, I know who she is. Oh, her poor parents. Yes, of course. I’ll meet you at my office in five minutes. Oh good heavens.”

The “oh good heavens” sounded like an older man, but this guy was mid forties, if that. As soon as I saw him, the image from five years ago clicked in — tall, thin, pale, sharp featured, nervous. The hairline had receded maybe another inch since the last time I’d seen him, but the hair rounding off the back of his head was still thick and black and glossy. He unlocked the door to his private office, pointed Bolt and me to matching yellow leather armchairs facing his desk, sat down at his computer, and called up Maggie Warren’s file.

“Poor Maggie,” he said. “A nice girl. She’s faced some challenges but handled them well. Chemistry major, 3.5 average last year. Failed an Intro to Poli Sci midterm this semester, but Dr. Skotten is a demanding professor. So, Officers. How can I help? You needn’t notify the family; I’ll do that.”

“Fine,” I said. “Our concern is figuring out the circumstances of her death. We found her body below Petite Falls. Any thoughts on how it happened?”

“Oh good heavens.” He patted his forehead fretfully, as if still expecting to find hair there. “Those stepping-stones — such a temptation, such a hazard. She must have been taking a solitary stroll when she spotted them. Filled with the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance, she decided to cross. But she lost her balance — that can happen, even to young people as physically fit as our Culbert students.”

“Maybe it happened like that,” I acknowledged. “But some things seem odd. For example, she was blindfolded with a blue silk scarf. Does that suggest anything to you?”

I can’t definitely say he blanched — with a guy that pale, it’s hard to tell when the pastiness level escalates. “Why, the giddy spirit of youthful exuberance,” he said. “That must be why she freely chose to increase the challenge by blindfolding herself. A tragic choice, but not surprising, given the sense of adventure typical of Culbert students. A similarly adventuresome spirit leads sixty-two percent of them to go on our fine study abroad programs. Do you know about our programs? I have some brochures—”

“We also found a Pi Alpha Kappa pledge pin on her sweater,” I said, “and a hundred and ninety-eight blue M&M’s. Any special significance to the color blue?”

This time, he blanched for sure. He turned a paler shade of white, or a whiter shade of pale, however the song goes. “Now that you mention it, blue is Pi Alpha’s signature color. The pledges wear blue scarves during Hell Week — as it happens, last week. And on Hell Night — as it happens, last night — each pledge turns in two hundred blue M&M’s. That’s one of the harmless rituals now typical at Culbert. Here. I’ll show you.” He took a paper from a folder on his desk. “I created these forms after that incident in 1998. It was my first year, and, oh good heavens, I nearly lost my job, though I hadn’t yet had time to repair the damage done by my predecessor. He turned a blind eye to the worst initiation practices, to — oh good heavens, to decadence, to, well, exploitation. Some fraternities — well, the young women were willing enough, and not exactly nice to begin with, but... I now require all fraternities and sororities to turn in lists of Hell Week activities, and I allow nothing that is not completely innocent and safe. See for yourself.”

The list did look completely innocent and safe. And completely dull.