The woman was clearly a teacher, and a pro. I ceded to the inevitable and politely murmured, “The judge?”

“My father, Judge Amos Parchester. He served three terms on the state Supreme Court, although you’re too young to have heard of him. His decisions are still noted to this day. He was an ardent defender of constitutional rights, Mrs. Malloy.”

“Indeed?” What else could I say?

“Which is why I chose a career in journalism, as you must have guessed. It was, of course, unthinkable for a lady to work for a newspaper, so I chose to instruct our youth. I’ve taught for forty years at Farberville High School.” She hiccupped on the final word, and gave me a bleary look of apology.

Miss Parchester had been nipping at the elderberry wine, I realized uneasily. The afternoon had been veering downhill, but this was more than anyone should have to put up with. I put down my teacup and said, “We need to discuss whatever nonsense Caron told you about me, Miss Parchester. I am not a detective. I am not an accountant. There is no way that I can-”

“I have never been more humiliated in my life than I was this morning, when Mr. Weiss came into my room,” she said, dabbing at her cheek with a wispy handkerchief. “He accused me of being a common thief, of stealing money from the department accounts! Judge Parchester is surely rolling in his grave, and poor mama-bless her soul-must be…”

“I cannot help you,” I repeated, trying to sound steadfast.

“There must be some error in the books,” she said. The flow from her watery blue eyes increased until the handkerchief was sodden. She daintily wrung it into the cup in her lap, tucked it in her cuff, and then continued, “Mr. Weiss refused to allow me to search for a discrepancy, although it must he a simple error on my part. If only you could check the deposit slips to see if they correspond with the entries, then we could determine if I indeed am responsible for this distressing situation. I had planned to retire this spring, you know, so that I could enjoy whatever pleasures I could find within the limits of my teacher retirement fund and what little I’ve saved. I had hoped to take up watercolor painting, or perhaps take a short bus tour.”

In the far corner of my brain, a violin began to play. Visions of pathetically inept landscapes flashed across my eyes. A short bus trip. Miss Parchester sitting in the mausoleum, gradually disappearing under a layer of dust. Drinking from a cracked wine goblet and talking to the judge. The judge answering. A string quartet took up the melody.

I found myself agreeing to check the deposit slips. “But,” I added in desperation, “I am not qualified to substitute for you. I have no teaching credentials, and the only thing I’ve done with a newspaper is read it.”

“Miss Don feels that your literary background is adequate,” Miss Parchester said, taking a slug of what I suspected was not straight Lipton. “You do have a degree in English, don’t you, dear? The students are quite capable of handling the production of the newspaper; some of them have worked on the staff for two years.”

I shook my head. “I cannot-”

“Of course, you can. As the Judge used to say, a healthy attitude can overcome a mountain. You’ll be a splendid teacher, Mrs. Malloy.”

The teacup was removed from my numb fingers. Somehow or other, I was congratulated for my endeavor, tidied up, and left on the doorstep to ponder the situation-which was clearly out of control. The jackhammer had done it, I told myself morosely as I returned to my car. Brain damage.

I drove home and climbed the stairs, still bewildered by preceding events. Caron looked up as I opened the door, the receiver in her treacherous hands.

“She just came in, Miss Don,” she chirped.

Miss Dort’s name had been popping up like a dandelion in recent conversations, but I had no idea who she was.

“Hello,” I said, eyeing the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. If Miss Parchester could indulge before five o’clock, then surely I deserved to do the same.

“Mrs. Malloy, this is Bernice Don at the high school. I’m the vice-principal in charge of administrative services,” said a brisk and somehow brittle voice. “I have been informed that you are willing to substitute for Miss Parchester until a permanent replacement can be found-or until the problem is resolved.”

I would not have selected the word “willing.” Bulldozed, coerced, emotionally blackmailed-but not “willing.” I realized I was staring blankly at the receiver and managed to say, “Something like that, yes.”

“I shall assume that you are aware substitute teachers receive thirty-eight dollars a day, and that you are familiar with both the standard state and federal withholdings and the obligatory contribution to the teacher retirement fund. Were you certified, Mrs. Malloy, you would receive forty-three dollars a day.”

I did a bit of multiplication in my head. “I taught two undergraduate sections of English literature,” I suggested tentatively. It would surely take me a week to solve Miss Parchester’s problems, which would appease Visa and keep Lean Cuisines in the freezer. The hypothetical banker’s breath on my neck seemed warmer.

“I was speaking of the secondary education certification block, not the amateurish attempts of graduate students to earn their assistantships. The fact that you lack proper credentials does pose a problem for me, Mrs. Malloy. It certainly would have been more expedient had you previously filled out an application at the administration office, but I may he able to slip through a backdated STA111. It will entail extra paperwork.”

I wondered if I owed her an apology for the extra paperwork. I wondered if Caron could be boarded with an Eskimo family. I wondered if the jackhammer was all that had.

“Mrs. Malloy, are you there?”

“Yes, Mrs. Don, I am here. If the STA111! is too much trouble, I’ll be glad to step aside. I’m sure that there are plenty of qualified substitutes-”

“No, there are not. On an average, we require twelve to fifteen substitutes each academic week, and we are always desperate to fill the gaps so that the educational process can continue with minimal disruption. I fear we must both accept the necessity of a little extra work. Now, I’ll need your social security number for the W- 8, your date of birth, your academic record, and two personal references-anyone who can confirm that you’re not an axe-murderer,” Miss Don said.

I produced the information, listening to the sound of an efficient and officious pen scratching on the other end of the line. When we reached the point of two character references, I drew an embarrassing blank.

“Anyone, Mrs. Malloy,” Miss Don prompted me. “Anyone who knows you welt enough to attest to your moral standing in the community.”

Miss Parchester? Inez? The jackhammer operator who should have worn a black, hooded cape? I could almost hear Miss Don’s mind questioning my moral standing.

“Peter Rosen,” I sputtered. “He’s the head of the CID.”

“The CID? May I presume that is a government agency of some sort?”

“The Criminal Investigation Department of the local police force,” I said. “He’s a personal friend of mine, and will certainly vouch for-“

“How fascinating.” Miss Don wasn’t fascinated. “I’ll need one more name, Mrs. Malloy. There surely is at least one more person who can attest to your character, isn’t there?”

I finally remembered the name of the sociology professor who lived downstairs and repeated it grimly. If he were asked about me, I hoped he could figure out who I was. Her forms filled, Mrs. Don assured me that she would stay at school until midnight to process my paperwork, and told me to report to her office at seven-thirty the next morning.

I replaced the receiver and went to find Caron. The door to the bathroom was locked, and I could hear water gushing into the tub. Apparently the sound was loud enough to muffle my comments, in that I received no reply. If the child had any sense, she would remain in the sanctuary of a bubble bath until her toes turned to prunes. I made a face at the door, then went into the kitchen for a much-needed medicinal dose of scotch and a few more aspirins.