The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders by Mignon F. Ballard Page A

had in common.” I leaned against the brick pillar at the foot of the steps. “I realize D.C. was unpopular, but did she have any special enemies?”
    Celeste grinned. “Do you have a phone book?”
    â€œShe and Leslie Monroe were having it out down in the laundry room one day not long ago,” Debra said. “I thought they were going to start punching each other. Kinda freaked me out.”
    â€œWhat started it?” I asked.
    â€œD.C. wanted to use the dryer, so she threw Leslie’s clean clothes on the floor. Leslie had to wash them all over again.”
    Celeste turned the can of Coke in her hands as if studying the label. “I heard she pitched a hissy fit at rehearsal one night. Actually threw a script at Katy Jacobs.”
    Debra’s eyes grew wide. “What happened?”
    â€œD.C. was late, so Mrs. Treadwell—that’s the director,” Celeste told me, “put Katy in her role for the first scene. Katy was the understudy, you know, and D.C. had to wait until it was over to take her place. Made her mad enough to snag lightning, they said.”
    â€œWhen did that happen?” I asked.
    â€œI think it was about a week before she disappeared,” Celeste said. “Katy says she feels funny about playing that role now.”
    Debra drained her drink and scooted down a step into the sun. “That girl made more people cry than a bushel of onions. I don’t see how her roommate could stand her.”
    â€œI guess she just got used to her,” Celeste said.
    Debra made a face. “Shoot! You could get used to hanging if it didn’t kill you.”

    We were still laughing when somebody screamed.
    â€œOh, dear God, what’s happened now?” Celeste jumped to her feet and started running toward the sound.
    â€œSounds like it’s coming from the cafeteria,” I said.
    Debra looked at me and shrugged. “I asked Mrs. Benson not to serve that leftover spaghetti again !” And she took off after her roommate.
    I hurried across the quad behind them as girls streamed out of dorms and classrooms, collecting on the leaf-strewn campus in a jittery chattering mass. Joy Ellen Harper rushed from her building, running toward the cafeteria faster than I would have thought possible, and I waded through a crowd of students to see what was going on. Please, not another murder! I thought, looking about frantically for Leslie Monroe. Across the campus, Blythe Cornelius stood on the steps of Main Hall with a bewildered-looking Dean Holland leaning on her arm.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Miss Lucy?” Paula Shoemaker worked her way over to me, remembering, no doubt, her own screams of only a few days ago. “Do you think there’s been—”
    I put an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s hope not,” I said, wishing Augusta were nearby. We could use her tranquil influence now.
    â€œIt’s Pearl!” The girl they call Troll appeared beside us. “You know—that lady who works in the cafeteria? The one who laughs a lot.”
    But Pearl wasn’t laughing now, and when we reached the steps of the building I saw why.
    Willene Benson stood in the doorway with her frail arms part-way around a large hysterical woman. On the floor at their feet lay a big white apron like the ones we wore to boil pokeberries, only this one wasn’t stained with berry juice. It was spattered with what looked a lot like blood.
    If the scene in front of us hadn’t been so frightening, it would have been funny. Pearl, who was at least six inches taller and about seventy pounds heavier than Willene, stood crying into the smaller woman’s shoulder, and her sobs had now reached the hiccupping stage. To my surprise, Willene seemed to have overcome her customary skittishness and, at least for now, was holding her own. Still, her face was almost as white as the uniform she wore and her eyes held a dazed expression. “It’s