Murder at the PTA (2 page)

“Okay,” she said. “No dating.”

I slid down a little in my chair. Safe and sound. No pressure. Just the peace and warmth of early fall. Leaves turning yellow, orange, and red against the bright blue sky. A tangy earthy smell in the air—that special autumnal scent that summoned memories of high school football games, trick-or-treating, and scooping wet stringy seeds out of pumpkins. I closed my eyes and breathed in fading images of Jenna in a princess costume and Oliver dressed as his favorite stuffed animal.

“Then how about being the secretary of the school’s Parent Teacher Association?” Marina ran the words together as fast as an auctioneer trying to unload a box of moldy books.

I opened my eyes and sat up straight. She couldn’t possibly have said what I thought she’d said.

“You’d make a great committee secretary. You’re organized. You do what you say you will. You know how to do things. You’re reliable. Responsible. People trust you.” Her smile stretched two feet wide.

“What makes you think I know how to do things?”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit. You own a business, for crying out loud. Doing this little secretary thing would be a piece of cake.”

“If it’s so little, you do it.”

“My darling,”—“daah-ling”it came out—“think about what you just said.”

I did. I thought about it, visualized it, and rejected it. Marina, with her big heart and cheer and love and flamboyance, was not what you’d call efficient. Her husband and youngest son got fed on time, and her college-aged children got regular care packages in the mail, but her desk looked like a horizontal wastebasket. Paperwork was not her strength.

“What happened to the old secretary?” I asked. Though I was a member of the Tarver Elementary PTA, I’d skipped most of last year’s meetings. Raising money for handicapped playground equipment was important, as were most of the causes, but my children had needed me more than the PTA did.

“You’ll make a great secretary,” Marina repeated. “And you need more social interaction. Running that bookstore doesn’t count.”

“The kids—”

“PTA meetings are on Wednesday, and Richard has the kids that night, yes? I bet you’re not doing anything fun with that free time. I bet you do laundry. Maybe sometimes you go wild and balance your checkbook.”

Chores weren’t my typical Wednesday night, but I wasn’t going to tell even my best friend what I did do.

Jenna dropped out of the tree and tore across the yard. Oliver gave up his attempt to climb Tree Everest and tore after her, his shrieks joining hers. Marina’s surprise child, nine-year-old Zach, abandoned his pogo stick and followed. In seconds the yard was full of children playing a bizarre variety of tag. My flesh and blood didn’t look at me once.

A tiny piece of my silly sentimental heart shredded into pieces. My babies were growing up. Maybe it was time for me to grow up, too. “Okay,” I said, sighing. “I’ll run. For secretary. I probably won’t win, but I’ll run.”

“Hallelujah!” Marina clapped her hands, leaped out of her chair, and pulled me into a hard hug. “Bet you dinner and a movie that you win.”

“You’re on.”

A few days later I stopped at Tarver to drop off a box of special orders. Delivering to the local schools was one of the services the Children’s Bookshelf offered. I wasn’t sure it was cost-effective, but it generated a lot of goodwill, and that alone made it worthwhile.

I handed the box to the school secretary, then turned and almost ran into the wide body of Paul Richey, Jenna’s teacher. Paul was often at the store buying books and stickers for the kids in his classroom. All the purchases were out of his own pocket. Many teachers did the same, and I gave them what discount I could.

“So you’re going to be the new PTA secretary.” He grinned. “Who talked you into volunteering?”

Volunteering? I was getting a bad feeling about this. “I’m running, that’s all.”

“Gotcha.” He nodded sagely. “And because sitting on the PTA committee is such a coveted position, you’ll be competing against dozens of candidates.”

“There’s bound to be a couple.” I zipped up my coat. “Aren’t there?”

Paul’s grin got a little bigger. “In a perfect world, sure. But we’re in Rynwood.” He sketched a salute and walked toward his classroom.

Mother that I am, I desperately wanted to follow him, to peek in the door and see my daughter. Then I wanted to check on Oliver; I wanted to see his tongue stick out in concentration as he worked out math problems.

But since I also didn’t want to see their faces flush with embarrassment—“Mom, I can’t
believe
you waved to me in front of my friends!”—I headed back to work and left my children behind.

 

Two weeks after Marina’s not-so-subtle push, I sat at a table near the front of a Tarver Elementary classroom. A PTA-approved tape recorder and blank legal pad sat in front of me, a two-page agenda lurked to my right, and a bright blue portable filing system was on the floor next to my feet.

“Beef Wellington,” Marina said. She sat in the front row of the audience, her grin as bright as a shiny shoe. “And
Halloween Two
.”

That dinner-and-a-movie bet wasn’t going away. “
The Lion King
and pizza from Sabatini’s.”

She made a gagging motion. “The owner’s connected. You know, the mob? I wouldn’t trust any meat he serves. Grilled steaks and
Blazing Saddles
.”

In June I’d blown off my eyebrows trying to light the grill. I hadn’t started the evil thing since, and Marina knew it. She also knew I wasn’t a Mel Brooks fan. “Peanut butter and jelly and
Dr. Zhivago
.”

As Marina crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, a gavel banged down. I jumped and started the tape recorder.

“This meeting will come to order.” Erica Hale, the PTA’s silver-haired president, peered out at the audience over half glasses. “I’d like everyone to welcome our newly installed secretary, Beth Kennedy.” Polite applause sprinkled through the room, punctuated by Marina’s fist thrust and earsplitting whistle. My cheeks flamed hot, and I shuffled papers that didn’t need shuffling.

Erica went on. “As some of you might remember, our former secretary and her family moved to Belize, and Beth has graciously agreed to donate her time and services.”

I blinked and mouthed the word to Marina. “Belize?” I’d heard of people vacationing in and retiring to Belize, but moving there? With young children? That was far outside my comfort zone—about two thousand miles outside.

Marina shrugged.

“With the committee’s permission,” Erica said, “I’d like to rearrange tonight’s agenda. We have a guest who has another commitment, and I’d like to move action item number one to the beginning of the meeting.”

I glanced at the agenda, but before I could locate the action items, Erica requested a voice vote approving the change. “Ayes?” Erica asked. The other committee members said aye. “Nays?”

I found the action items. Number three was putting allergy warnings on bake sale goods. Number two was buying an automated snow-day notification system. Number one was . . . “Uh-oh,” I said.

“Was that a nay vote?” Erica frowned at me.

“Uh, no.” I picked up a pen, circled the pertinent item, drew an arcing line up to the top of the agenda, and ended it with an arrow. “I’m fine with the change. Sorry.”

Erica nodded and looked at the back of the room. “Agnes? You have the floor.”

Twenty-odd members of the PTA were in the audience, and every one of them twitched as Erica said the name “Agnes.” As if choreographed, all heads turned to watch the fiftyish Agnes Mephisto, principal of Tarver Elementary, walk to the front of the room. Topped by a haircut that even I knew had gone out of style years ago, Agnes’s body had an unfortunate resemblance to a fire hydrant. She walked with solid steps and planted herself directly in front of me. I had an excellent view of her back and her long, overpermed hair.

“Good evening, PTA members!” Agnes’s voice was piercing at a distance. At point-blank range, it was all I could do not to cover my ears. “I have outstanding news for you, for our community, but most of all for the wonderful students of Tarver Elementary.” There was a smile in her voice, and I was just as glad not to see it. Agnes had a weasel-like cast to her face, a resemblance that grew even more pronounced when she smiled. Luckily, that didn’t happen often. “I’m sure,” she said, “that everyone will be as excited about this project as I am.”

I leaned to the left to look around Agnes. Excitement wasn’t the word I would have used to describe the crowd’s emotions, not if the crossed arms and stone faces were any indication. In the ten years she’d been principal at Tarver, Agnes had alienated a host of parents and encouraged more than one teacher to take early retirement. Only the school board seemed to like her. “Test scores are up,” Mack Vogel, the superintendent, had said when he’d stopped by the store the day before. He also said he hoped that, as the new PTA secretary, I’d ease tensions with Agnes. “You’re the conciliatory sort, Beth. Calm and peaceful.” He’d given me a hearty handshake. “You’ll do a great job of cooling tempers.”

Right. I raised my eyebrows and tried to catch Marina’s eye, but she was too busy scowling.

“We’re entering a new age,” Agnes said, “and I can’t stand by and see Tarver Elementary left behind. I can see exactly what we need, and I know you’ll agree with me.”

Not a head nodded. I sneaked a look down the committee table. No one there was nodding, either.

“This school needs better facilities,” Agnes said. “I want our children to have a larger library. I want more computers and more books. And our children need more exposure to music. Have any of your kids ever seen an opera?” She looked at the cold expressions. “I didn’t think so. Children need artistic stimulation. They need to play instruments. They need to paint and draw and sing. And they need pets. They need to—”

“Agnes.” Erica drummed her arthritic fingertips on the table. In years past, PTAs had consisted of parents and teachers, but the Tarver PTA had conceded the need to expand its membership and had allowed grandparents to join. “A well-rounded education is one of Tarver’s missions,” Erica said. “That isn’t up for debate. Could you please get to the point?” She gave the clock hanging over the classroom door a hard look.

The female fireplug swelled in all directions, and I shrank back. Stories of a shouting and sputtering Agnes were legendary, but I had no wish to see or hear the reality. The swelling went down, and Agnes settled back on the balls of her feet. “Of course, Erica.” Her shoulders rose and fell slightly. “I’ve been notified that a benefactor is willing to make a large donation to Tarver Elementary.”

Agnes talked over the low buzz of conversation that circled the room. “The benefactor, who wishes to remain anonymous, is happy with my suggestion for an addition to the school building.”

The buzz grew to a dull roar.

“Who is it?” called a woman from the back of the room.

“Anonymous means anonymous, CeeCee,” Agnes said. “The benefactor’s name won’t be made public. Our secret donor is eager to get started, so I’ve hired an architect to—”

“You did what?” A young father in the back row tried to stand, but his wife dragged him back down.

“I’ve hired an architect,” Agnes repeated. “With my guidance, this addition should—”

“
Your
guidance?” A blowsy woman grabbed the back of the chair in front of her and heaved herself up. “What about our guidance?”

Another woman stood. “What about the taxpayers?”

“Since this is a donation,” Agnes said smoothly, “there will be no bond issue. The taxpayers needn’t be consulted.”

The room exploded into sudden sound.

“You can’t—”

“Of all the high-handed—”

“Just because you’re principal doesn’t mean you can—”

I laid down my pen. How does a secretary take minutes of a free-for-all? I watched the wheels of the recorder spin and hoped there’d be enough tape.

 

“Where on earth have you been?”

“Ahh!” Everything I was carrying cascaded to the kitchen floor. “Richard!” I put a hand to my chest. Yes, my heart was still beating. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you to get home so my children wouldn’t be left unattended.”

I took a deep breath—then another. Frights like that couldn’t be good for you. “Why isn’t your car in the driveway?”

“Since I don’t know which side of the garage you use, I parked in front.”

The house was on a corner lot. “A choice corner lot,” the real estate agent had said when we’d toured the place. Choice of what? I’d asked. Richard had chuckled, but I hadn’t been trying to be funny.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “The kids sleep at your place on Wednesdays.”

“I have to leave at six for an emergency meeting in Chicago.” He looked at his watch. “That’s in six and a half hours. I left messages at your store and here and on your cell phone. Why you didn’t call me back, I can’t imagine.”