Unfortunately, he was closely followed by his teacher, who did not look happy. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you Nathan Masters’ mother?” Her voice was thin; worn out from years of making herself heard.
My first impulse was to point out that Nathan didn’t call me Mommy for nothing. But I smiled up at her and said, “Yes, I am.” As Nathan released me from my hug, I told him, “Sweetie, show me how well you can go down the slide while I speak with your teacher for a moment.”
Nathan peered suspiciously at both of us, handed me his cap, then slowly walked toward the slide.
“How did things go today?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t say a word, even to tell me his name. So I decided to let him choose the first animal during ‘Old MacDonald.’” She paused and grimaced.
“And did he say anything?” I waved at Nathan at the top of the slide.
“Oh, yes.” She sighed. “But instead of naming an animal, he said, ‘Poop.’ It totally disrupted the class. All the children started laughing.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. “I was so worried. He can be so shy sometimes. What a fabulous job you must be doing to draw him out like that. Thank you so much.”
You can’t be a parent for seven years without learning a few skills of manipulation.
She smiled slowly. “You’re welcome. Though you may want to explain to your son that the lyrics are supposed to be farm animals, not BMs.”
Nathan finished his ride down the slide and made his way toward us. The teacher was charming as she said goodbye to Nathan and told him how glad she was to have him in her class. Hmm. So she was humorless, but warm. A reasonable trade-off.
Once in the car, Nathan asked, “Now that I gone to kindergarten, can I stay home?”
“You’re not done with kindergarten. You have to go back again, you know.”
“I do?” he cried in abject horror. “How many times?”
“One hundred and seventy-nine.”
“I’m never going to school again!” he wailed. “I’m running away from home!”
“Tell you what. To celebrate your first day of school, I’ll take you to lunch. Where would you like to go?”
“McDonald’s,” he grumbled. Then he sang quietly, “Old McDonald had a cheeseburger.”
I joined him, and we sang the entire menu en route.
The afternoon passed quickly. I didn’t receive any business emails, which was bad news for my finances but good for my nerves. So when I saw a fax in my tray after we’d returned from meeting Karen at the bus stop, my heart thumped until I saw the cover sheet and recognized Lauren’s number. The note was a drawing of a flower. Below the flower, a childish scrawl with a blue crayon read:
Dear Karen,
Daddy sho me how to send pikters. Can you?
Love
Rachel
I quickly typed:
Dear Rachel,
I’m sorry, but we only have one computer. I don’t let Karen use it.
Thank you for your message. I’ll give it to Karen. Can your Mommy please call me?
Love,
Molly
I sent the note, and within five minutes the phone rang. No one responded to my hello. I could hear what sounded like a child’s quick breaths.
“Is this Rachel?” I asked.
“Are you mad at me for sending Karen a fax?”
“Of course not, sweetie. I just don’t let my children use my computer because they get the keyboard sticky.” That was partly true. Because my business, meager as it was, depended entirely on my computer, I was overly possessive. “Is your mom there?”
She paused, probably trying to decide if I was going to tattle on her, but then said, “I’ll get her.”
Lauren and I chatted for a while. She accepted my dinner invitation for Friday night and repeated her offer to watch the kids while I went to the PTA meeting tonight.
A couple of hours later, I drove to the meeting, mentally attempting to sort my thoughts. Was it really possible that Denise was so jealous of her husband she’d try to frighten me into leaving for fear that I was available? Could she hold a grudge against me for my immaturity regarding Mrs. Kravett seventeen years ago? It all seemed totally absurd and very unlike levelheaded, play-by-the-rules Denise Meekers. Then again, people change.
Maybe Stephanie Geist Saunders was the culprit. We didn’t get along from the start. She’d moved into the district in the seventh grade. Once, in tenth grade, we were changing in the girls’ locker room, and Stephanie struck a chesty pose beside me. She said to her almost-as-well-endowed audience, “Hard to believe Molly and I are the same species, isn’t it?”
In my fantasies, her bra straps now serve as suspenders for those 38-D cups she was so proud of flaunting.
I parked, then headed down the wide hallway toward the cafeteria, battling a sense of deja vu that made me half expect some hatchet-faced teacher to put me in detention for roaming the halls without a permission slip. The double doors to the cafeteria were open. This one building housed all thirteen grade levels when I was in school, before the middle school and high school building were added. The far wall still sported the twenty-year-old colorful but inept painting of a cougar that was the school mascot. It looked like a buffalo.
Inside the, large room, fifty or so women were standing in noisy groups behind rows of folding chairs that faced two lone chairs by the cougar/buffalo’s snout. I overheard the name Mrs. Kravett numerous times. I scanned for Denise Meekers, but didn’t see her. There was a small table near the door with a full pitcher of iced tea. Drinking some gave me the opportunity to survey the room, while feeling less conspicuous for being alone.
A tall man with an inch-long ponytail strode into the room and turned toward me.
He grinned. “Molly?”
“Jack?” Good thing Lauren had forewarned me that Jack Vance had changed. That allowed me to maintain a sincere smile. Those broad shoulders of his had sagged, taking his chest with them, and leaving a roll of flab around the waistline of his black Dockers. His face had paid the price for too much time in the sun and was lined and blotchy. His salt-and-pepper hairline was receding.
“I heard you were back, and that you enrolled your children here,” Jack said. “Are they excited about school?”
“Oh, definitely.” Nathan’s threat to run away from home rather than return to school certainly counted as excited.
“Good. Good. Let me give you an agenda, hot off the press.” He handed me a sheet of paper and said, “Say. Would you like to have dinner with me sometime? We can get caught up and talk about old times.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m having Lauren Wilkins over for dinner Friday.” Jack brightened so noticeably at the mention of Lauren that I added, “And her husband. I’m planning to ask some more of our former classmates as well. Would you join us?”
He accepted, claiming that, thanks to his divorce, it had been a long time since he’d had a home-cooked meal.
He wandered away and shook hands with one of the three other men in the room. His bureaucratic grin never faded. That change in him was more disturbing to me than his flab. He had always had such an unforced, effervescent personality. He’d gone from champagne to ginger ale.
Jack held out his hand toward another man, who abruptly turned his back and crossed the room. Curious, I watched him. He was strikingly handsome with silver hair and a trim build that made him look as if he should be carrying a tennis racket.
People began to take seats, and I caught sight of a woman in a tailored fire-red dress suit. As if she felt my eyes on her, the woman turned. Her hair was in a perfect flattering coif, and her face, though heavily made up, looked youthful and stunning.
Stephanie hadn’t changed as much as I’d hoped.
She came toward me, flashed her Miss Universe smile, and held out her arms, though I knew I was in no danger of being hugged. “Why, Molly! You haven’t changed a bit!” She was staring at my chest as spoke.
/> “Thank you.” Matching her eye level, I added, “You seem to be holding up well yourself.”
She gave me one of her tittering giggles. “Oh, Moll, Moll. Sorry your husband deserted you. How are your kids handling it?”
Her blatant nastiness struck me as funny, and I laughed heartily.
A skinny, nerdish-looking man stepped up beside Stephanie. His slicked-back hair emphasized his cone-shaped head. I held my breath, hoping Stephanie would say that this was her husband. “Hello. How are you,” he said to me. He had a deep, disc-jockey voice.
“This is Denise’s husband, Sam Bakerton. Sam, this is Molly…”
“Masters. Nice to meet you. I have a bowl from Denise. I meant to bring it back tonight but forgot.”
He smiled. “She can stop by and pick it up sometime, I’m sure.” Though just a snap judgment on my part, he didn’t strike me as the philandering type. For one thing, his eyes didn’t roam toward Stephanie while speaking to me.
Stephanie’s vision had started to wander. No doubt we’d bored her. Because my plan for an insightful dinner party required me to do so, I invited her, plus Sam and spouses, to dinner Friday. Sam said he’d check with Denise, but thought they were free. Not surprisingly, Stephanie wouldn’t commit and said she’d get back to me.
Jack cleared his throat, and all but the front row of seats filled rapidly. I wondered if that was some throwback from school days when there were so many valid reasons for avoiding the front seats. Stephanie said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to sit next to Jack, after I get my husband situated.” She giggled. “I don’t know why he insists on coming to these things.”
Stephanie rushed over to plant a peck on the cheek of the handsome silver-haired man, then took the seat next to Jack. So the man who’d deliberately turned his back on Jack Vance was married to Stephanie. And I’d invited them all to dinner. Oh joy.
Thirty minutes later, we were still apparently on the first item of the agenda, which read: “Introductions: Five minutes.” Estimating six times the projected time allotment for each item, we’d be here for the morning bell. I scanned the remainder of the agenda, half expecting to find: “Balance the federal budget: Ten minutes.”
Oddly, Jack spoke for less than a minute about Mrs.Kravett’s death. This for a woman who’d worked at this school since before most of us in the room were born. He did at least announce that the funeral was tomorrow afternoon.
I’d had a few too many iced teas and excused myself. When I returned, Stephanie led the room in a round of applause. Not a good sign.
“Congratulations, Molly. You’ve been elected the new secretary-slash-treasurer.”
A hundred buts popped into my head. Scanning the downturned faces while making my way back to my seat, I knew there was no point in objecting. I’d been outfoxed.
“Don’t worry,” Stephanie cooed. “I’m sure we can find you a helper.”
“A helper? Great. To serve as the secretary, the treasurer, or the slash?”
She ignored the crowd’s titters. “Do we have any volunteers?”
Nobody raised a hand. A middle-aged, curly-haired woman leaned toward me and said, “Now you know why nobody drinks the iced tea at these meetings.”
“Well,” Stephanie said, smiling, at me benignly, “we’ll find someone to work with you. Eventually.”
Was it Will Rogers who’d claimed he never met a man he didn’t like? If so, he hadn’t been to many PTA meetings. Let’s just see how charitable Will would’ve been were he elected PTA secretary-slash-treasurer during his potty break. Perhaps the operative word in his assertion had been man, but even so, there were four men in the room. None of them were jumping up and down crying foul on my behalf.
To my surprise, Stephanie suddenly announced that she needed to pick up her daughter from a soccer game, and Jack ended the meeting almost an hour early. Even more surprisingly, although several people started to stand, they hesitated and sat back down. It was as if they were stalling, waiting to learn if they’d won a door prize.
I looked toward the exit and saw why nobody was leaving. Sergeant Tommy, in full uniform, was standing in the doorway, watching me. No one said a word. I inwardly groaned, but crossed the cafeteria toward him, having learned from all those years as a student that the floor never caves in when you want it to.
“Hey, Moll. Something’s come up. Mind gettin’ into my car with me for a moment? Got somethin’ to show you.”
I glanced back. Everyone was watching us, in total silence. Feeling recalcitrant, I called out, “Goodbye. It was nice meeting all of you.”
There was at least one advantage to being escorted from a PTA meeting by a uniformed officer: maybe they would oust me as treasurer.
He led me to a blue police cruiser parked directly in front of the entrance and opened the passenger door. With visions of being whisked off to the penitentiary, I remained on the sidewalk.
“What’s this about, Tommy?”
He rounded the car and got behind the wheel, shutting his door. It seemed unlikely this was the procedure he’d use if he were about to arrest me, so I got into the passenger side and shut the door.
“Your questions ‘bout Mrs. Kravett’s death got me to thinkin’. Went back over there today. She died at her desk. A neighbor, all set to drive her to a doctor’s appointment, found her. So I went through her desk. This was the top sheet in the center drawer.”
He handed me a piece of paper that looked as if it had been printed by a laser printer. It read:
I hate you, you Miserable Bitch! You destroyed my life! All you ever cared about was crushing your students, making sure they felt as worthless as you yourself are. I tried to warn you when I wrote that poem about you, but you didn’t stop, did you? After all the lives you’ve ruined, now you think you can just retire in peace and quiet. Well, I’ve come back, Bitch, for one purpose only. I’m going to make you pay for each and every student you hurt. Not a minute goes by when I don’t think of how much pain you’ll feel! I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!!!
Chapter 5
You Were Expecting Maybe Betty Crocker?
My stomach knotted as I read the message. Nobody could possibly think I wrote this. It’s all one long paragraph, caps are misused, and it ends with three exclamation points. I glanced at Tommy. He wouldn’t understand that we former journalism majors have hyperactive internal editors that kick in at inappropriate times.
“Maybe—” My voice sounded weak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Maybe someone wrote a second poem about Mrs. Kravett.”
He shook his head. “Know how I said that threat was the top sheet in the drawer? This was the second sheet.”
Tommy pulled another piece of paper from his back seat and handed it to me. Though I recognized it instantly, I read:
“Give me your homework, not your sighs,”
Mrs. Kravett glares and cries.
“How dare you think my class is boring?
Yes, that’s right, I heard you snoring.
Like with Lauren, I’ll smack your face.
This class is an utter disgrace.
Now shut up and stay in your seats
while I recite this never-ending poem by Keats.
You, too, would be nonstop crabby
if you looked like me, so short and flabby.
You kids are the worst pains in the necks
I’ve had in the twenty years since I’ve had sex.”
It was the poem I’d written, neatly clipped from the school newspaper before being photocopied. “Not exactly Emily Dickinson,” I mumbled. My face warmed. The shame I felt now was a fraction of what I’d experienced when I’d first seen that particular edition of the school’s Gazette. With that shame came the anger, again, at Stephanie, who’d defied me and published my words without my permission.
She had also printed that paper without getting approval for its new front page from the staff advisor, Mrs. Kravett.
I recalled that day so clearly, even after all these ye
ars. We’d been in study hall when I wrote the thing, angry and vindictive toward Mrs. Kravett for having embarrassed my best friend an hour earlier. Lauren had fallen asleep in class, so Mrs. Kravett threw a chalkboard eraser. The eraser hit Lauren’s desk, where it was aimed, awakening her with a start amidst a cloud of chalk dust. Yet my claim that it was her face sounded so much more dramatic. Plus face was much easier to rhyme than desk.
I’d passed the poem to Lauren, who’d laughed. She passed it on to her boyfriend, Howie, who handed it to Jack. I’d been so pleased with myself, watching my classmates laugh and smile at me with, I thought, new respect. Denise, however, looked appalled when she’d read it, but dutifully passed it to Stephanie.
Stephanie had laughed openly, and the study hall monitor almost caught her with it. Stephanie was editor of the paper that year, an attempt to make herself sound well-rounded on her college entrance applications, because she couldn’t attach an eight-by-ten glossy of herself in a swimsuit. As soon as the bell rang, she was at my desk, pleading with me to let her publish it. I refused and asked her to give it back. She said she had one friend she wanted to show it to first. The next morning, there it was on the front page.
I cleared my throat again and shifted positions in the car seat, watching people file out of the building. “Did you find any other threats in Mrs. Kravett’s desk? Anything that might give a clue as to who sent these?” Other than indicating me, I silently added.
He shook his head.
Just then, Stephanie and her elegant husband left the school building. Stephanie’s attempts to watch me surreptitiously as she walked past the car were almost comical. I rolled down the window. “Don’t forget to get back with me about dinner Friday.” I closed the window without waiting for her response.
Death Comes eCalling Page 4