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

Pamela gasped, reminded Fletcher not to use the b-word, and tugged him into the lounge where Bolt and Bianca and Nancy and I had all sat so stiffly yesterday. It looked different now. Curtains were drawn, couches had been moved out to make way for rows of folding chairs, and the bowl of blue M&M’s was gone, replaced by a dark blue candle in a silver candlestick. A huge photograph of Maggie hung over the fireplace, just below a blue satin banner printed with Greek words. Two girls in black, one strumming on a guitar and the other playing a flute, produced an appropriately mournful duet. As more people crowded into the lounge, I nudged Bolt toward the back row, and we waited until the music stopped and Bianca Flanders stepped up to the blue-draped podium.

“We are here,” she said, “to remember Maggie, taken from us by an act of random street crime. Her parents are making arrangements to take her home, but they’re with us in spirit. Now, I ask all members and alumni of Pi Alpha Kappa to rise for our oath.”

Almost all the women in the room stood up — college-aged women, middle-aged women, a few considerably older women, every one of them strikingly attractive and very well dressed. Solemnly, they recited the oath in unison:

“Pi Alpha Kappa — we pledge ourselves to you.

“To Pistay — Loyalty: Our loyalty to our sisters is tested, firm, unshakable;

“To Arete — Excellence: We loyally help each other achieve excellence;

“To Koinonia — Community: Excellence forms the basis of our community.”

Without another word, they sat down. I gotta tell you, I had a lump in my throat.

Next, the guitarist and the flutist led us in “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” It’s a sorry reflection on the state of contemporary music, Mother, that when today’s college kids need songs gloomy enough for memorial services, they have to reach clear back to the sixties. Bianca returned to the podium.

“We don’t have a formal service planned,” she said. “Instead, I’d like to invite people who cared about Maggie to speak. Nancy, would you go first?”

The vice president shared her thoughts about Maggie’s niceness and random street crime’s nastiness. Several other Pi Alpha members followed, all sticking to the same two themes. The mayor’s assistant who’d been quoted in the newspaper spoke too, also bemoaning random street crime. Then Maggie’s roommate stood up.

“When Bianca said there wouldn’t be a real service,” Pamela said when she got to the podium, “I was like, ‘Ohmygod! Why not?’ I mean, even though Maggie wasn’t, like, religious,

it’s only, like, right, since she’s, like, dead. So I wish I’d written a prayer. But I wrote a poem. And I didn’t want to make it real long or drawn out. So I wrote a haiku:

“Dark, dismal despair,

“Blindly, hopelessly leaping—

“Pain ends with sad splash.”

It almost took my breath away, it was that good. Pamela sat down again, linking arms with Fletcher Cantrell III; he stared fixedly at the floor.

I nudged Bolt. “Quite some couple,” I said. You know I’m not the judgmental type, Mother, but it did seem wrong for Maggie’s roommate to be playing up to Maggie’s ex-boyfriend so soon. But Pamela would naturally be attracted to a big-man-on-campus type. “He’s the entertainment chair for his fraternity,” I said. “We can’t forget that.”

Bolt gasped. “Indeed not, sir,” he said. “A brilliant observation!”

Yeah, I am good at figuring out what attracts folks to each other. Meanwhile, Dean Collard had scrambled to the podium and launched into a speech about how sad it was that giddy, youthful exuberance had robbed Maggie of the opportunity to benefit further from the educational and extracurricular opportunities at Culbert College. Fifteen minutes into his list of clubs and intramural sports, even the sincerest-looking mourners were sneaking glimpses at their watches. Finally, Dean Collard glanced in my direction.

“Here’s someone who should speak,” he said. “Some people have said the police can’t keep the streets safe for Culbert students — and other residents of our fair city, of course. But our streets are safe; Officer Johnson can attest to that. Officer Johnson?”

You know how I hate public speaking, Mother, how sweaty and incoherent it makes me — even sweatier and more incoherent than usual, I mean. But I didn’t have much choice. Glancing hopelessly at Bolt, I shuffled to the podium.